


Ghivashel

by mdseiran



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Community: hobbit_kink, Drama, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-23
Updated: 2013-03-30
Packaged: 2017-12-03 08:57:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 22
Words: 44,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/696536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mdseiran/pseuds/mdseiran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The last thing Bilbo expects when he stays up late one night is company. The strange dwarf and his companion crash into his life and prove unexpected saviours. But the dwarf seems to think he will be joining them on their travels, and Bilbo has no such intentions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. CHAPTER ONE

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jeza_red](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jeza_red/gifts).



> Based on [this prompt](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/3651.html?thread=7881539#t7881539) from the Hobbit Kink Meme.
> 
> Thanks to Lyn for doing an awesome job with the beta as always, and for putting up with my general insanity and OC-ness when it comes to writing. ♥
> 
> Now with [gorgeous art](http://uncreativeart.tumblr.com/post/46226919954/edit-added-a-few-close-up-photos-of-thorin-and) by [uncreativeart](http://uncreativeart.tumblr.com). I'll change the link to the full version later, thank you so much! ♥

In the far west, past the Misty Mountains, at the center of Eriador lay a small village. It was quiet, and peaceful, and its hobbits were a friendly sort. From above, it usually looked like a very green tapestry with splashes of color here and there.

But a long winter had come to Middle Earth, and Hobbiton was green no longer. Its lands had turned gray and black, covered with snow and mud. Its people kept to their homes, huddling around the fireplaces, shivering at the shrieking of the harsh winds as they ravaged the village, and clasping each other's hands at the sound of wolves.

At the north-western edge of Hobbiton, inside a snow-covered hill, Bilbo Baggins reaches for a log off the ever-dwindling pile and places it in the hearth. It is late, and his parents have retired for the night, seeking warmth beneath their blankets. But Bilbo feels restless; something is stirring in the air, brewing, and he has hidden a kitchen knife in one of his books. They've all heard the stories of wolves leaving hobbits torn to shreds on the streets, and orcs so strong they can break down doors. He knows a kitchen knife won't be enough, but it's better than nothing, and it grants him a small measure of comfort.

The wind howls and hail rebounds off of Bag End. Tick, tick, tick it goes, a steady, lulling rhythm. But the cadence changes and Bilbo jerks upright as a flood of hail suddenly bangs against the front door and windows. He grabs the knife, clenching it as he sneaks towards the glass pane. The wind obscures his vision, but he can hear something, something strange and unusual. Orcs, wolves, bandits, his mind supplies, but no, it's something else he feels, something...new.

The wind rushes in when he opens the door, and he barely keeps the wood from slamming into the wall. He tugs on his coat and steps outside, closing the door behind him. Holding his knife in front of him, he creeps slowly along the wall. He can see no footsteps in the mud, which reassures him that it is neither wolves nor orcs. But he had heard _something_.

He follows the steps down and around the smial. The wind pushes and pulls him more and more as he climbs the stairs that lead to their back garden. Bilbo has just about made up his mind that he has imagined everything and that going back inside is truly the sensible thing to do, when he sees it.

It's just a blurry shape at first, obscured by the wind and snow, but even from a distance he can see that it is enormous. _Maybe part of a mountain crashed in our garden_ , he thinks hysterically, but then it moves and he drops his knife.

He squats, hands scrabbling in the snow and mud, never taking his eyes off the creature in his backyard. He can hear heavy footsteps now, blending with the wind, and his heart lodges in his throat and refuses to budge. He'll be eaten for sure, and his parents won't even know what happened to him because a creature this size probably won't even leave a pile of bones behind, and it's right in front of him now and he doesn't even have his knife anymore to defend himself against this-

Dwarf?

Bilbo blinks, because surely he's imagining things, but no, there really is a dwarf standing in front of him, staring down at him. He slowly stands up and the dwarf's eyes follow him, fixed intently on his.

"Er, hello?" Bilbo finally shouts, hoping the dwarf can hear him over the wind. The dwarf doesn't react at first, but then he turns slightly, looking at something behind him, and Bilbo leans to the left and tries to see what could possibly be so fascinating.

Behind the dwarf, the enormous, dark shape that Bilbo had momentarily forgotten about, starts to move.

_We're all doomed_ , he thinks as the dragon finally comes into view, and it's the last thought he has before succumbing to the urge to simply faint.

* * *

The first thing Bilbo sees when he wakes up is the fire, merrily crackling in the hearth. The second thing he sees is his knife.

He jerks upright and scrambles for it only to find himself falling to the floor. His feet are tangled in a blanket, but he ignores that predicament in favor of grabbing the knife. He snatches it off the small table with shaky hands, and holds it up defensively as his eyes scan the room.

Seated in an armchair opposite the couch is the dwarf, and he is giving Bilbo an amused look.

Even by the firelight, the dwarf still strikes an imposing figure. The fire reflects off the armor covering his chest and shows the slightest hints of gray in his beard and long, dark hair. His shoulders are covered in fur, as are his huge boots, and Bilbo can see the sword leaning against the side of the chair. He glances at his paltry kitchen knife and, quietly, puts it back on the table.

He quickly untangles himself and gets to his feet, hands automatically folding the blanket. He freezes as he is about to put it away.

"D-dragon," he stutters. The blanket falls from his hands and he frantically scans the windows for a sign of the beast. Something lands heavily on his arm and his eyes are drawn to the dwarf's hand and then up to his face.

"It's alright," the dwarf says, "no harm will come to you." His hand awkwardly pats Bilbo's arm a few times.

Bilbo stares at him with wide eyes. "There's a _dragon_ in my garden!"

The dwarf nods, a small smile playing about his lips. "Yes, I know."

"Shouldn't you, you know," Bilbo gestures frantically at the sword, "kill it? It'll eat us all!"

The smile grows wider, and the stranger's grip on his arm gentles. He calmly steers Bilbo back towards the couch and gives him a gentle nudge to get him seated. He scoops up the blanket and, ever so carefully, settles it around Bilbo's shoulders. Bilbo stares at him as the dwarf settles next to him, utterly bewildered.

"I promise you, the dragon will do you no harm." He sounds entirely sure of that, and something in Bilbo's mind finally clicks.

"You came _with_ the dragon?" he squeaks out. The dwarf nods.

"We didn't mean to startle you," he says, and oh yes, they did a marvelous job of that, Bilbo thinks crossly. "The storm came upon us suddenly and we were forced to land."

"Be that as it may," Bilbo says stiffly, "you and your- dragon, are trespassing on private property, so would you please be so kin-"

His large fingers are gentle as they touch Bilbo's curls, and Bilbo scoots back with a small yelp. "What are you doing?" he asks, indignation warring with fear, and the stranger withdraws his hand and looks contrite.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs, "I know this must be quite startling." The dwarf lifts his head and regards Bilbo with eyes that burn with an emotion he can't quite define. "I think fate led me to you."

Bilbo can't help it; he laughs, awkwardly. "I think a storm led you here, Master Dwarf, and I think you should be on your way as soon as the wind settles."

The dwarf lowers his gaze. "Thorin."

Bilbo raises an eyebrow. "Pardon?"

"My name," he clarifies, "is Thorin."

"Oh. Right." Bilbo blinks. "I'm Bilbo Baggins."

Thorin smiles warmly at him and inclines his head slightly. Not to be outdone (his mother has raised a proper hobbit, after all) Bilbo responds in kind.

"Bilbo," Thorin repeats, and the way he says it- Bilbo clears his throat and tugs the blanket snugly around himself.

Next thing he knows, a warm hand is touching his face. "You're still cold," Thorin murmurs, and before Bilbo can say anything the dwarf's heavy fur coat is wrapped around him. He stares at Thorin's back as the latter adds more logs to the fire, for once completely at a loss.

"You should get some rest." Thorin's voice startles Bilbo and he realizes he's been staring at Thorin for- he doesn't even know how long it's been. The warmth of the coat and the fire are lulling him into a sense of security, and he feels powerless to fight it. After all, he thinks, suppressing a giggle, if Thorin had wanted to do anything to him, he could have done it already.

"I can't invite your dragon in," he finds himself saying, "but feel free to stay here." He yawns. "Until the storm clears. Of course."

Thorin chuckles softly, and Bilbo burrows further into his little cocoon. It occurs to him that he probably should warn his parents, but it is a fleeting thought, easily forgotten.

A touch to his hair, whispers, "Umkhûhazu", he hears, and he doesn't understand it, doesn't understand any of this, but sleep is suddenly the most important thing and he lets himself slip away.

* * *

Thorin is gone when he wakes up.

His mother is already awake and bustling about in the kitchen. She berates him for sleeping on the couch all night, but doesn't mention any unexpected guests. The warm coat, too, was gone when he woke up. Bilbo refuses to admit he is a little disappointed.

Instead, he helps his mother set the table, sneakily snatches a piece of toast when her back is turned, and just as sneakily puts the kitchen knife back in the drawer before she starts to wonder where it went. He notices that their supply of wood needs restocking, and since his father hasn't come down yet, Bilbo puts on his coat and braves the chilly weather outside.

The first thing he hears is a dull thudding. _Someone else is chopping wood_. Tentative and a little curious, he makes his way to the back garden, and comes to a sudden stop.

The dragon is still there.

And so is Thorin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to cobble the Khuzdul together myself, and I hope I haven't made any mistakes. But if I have, be it in one of Tolkien's fictional languages or even just in plain English, feel free to point it out to me!
> 
>  **Translations:**  
>  _Ghivashel (title)_ : (the) treasure of (all) treasures  
>  _Umkhûhazu_ : I found you


	2. CHAPTER TWO

Thorin finds comfort in the chopping of wood.

It's a simple chore, but it reminds him of home in a way, the swings of the axe similar to those of a hammer as it strikes metal. The logs split cleanly and evenly and the activity keeps him warm even without his coat.

He hears a funny little gasp, and he brings the axe down one more time, embedding it in the tree trunk, before turning around.

Bilbo is leaning on the wood fence, staring wide-eyed between him and Smaug. Something in Thorin instantly lights up at the sight of him.

_Are you sure he's the one?_ Smaug sounds skeptical, but Thorin _knows_.

_I'm sure._

"Bilbo," he greets the halfling, smiling and wiping his forehead on his sleeve. "Did you sleep well?"

"Er. Yes, thank you," Bilbo absently responds. "And you, did you, er-" He falls silent as he stares at Smaug. "Sorry, I just-"

"It's alright," Thorin quickly assures him. He walks towards Bilbo and stands next to him, turning so they are both looking at the dragon. "His name is Smaug," Thorin continues. "Do not be afraid."

"That is easy for you to say," Bilbo mutters under his breath, and it makes Thorin laugh. The halfling is stiff next to him. "Well, it is a pleasure meeting you, Smaug," he says, and then takes a quick step back when Smaug lowers his head. Thorin reaches out to steady him, and is pleased when Bilbo steps closer, pressing into his side a little.

"He says thank you for your hospitality," Thorin tells Bilbo, ignoring Smaug's laughter. Bilbo regards the dragon dubiously.

"Well, you did take me inside instead of leaving me in the snow, and you chopped wood as well, so I think we're fairly even." Bilbo's lips curve in a small smile, but it only lasts a moment. "However, I really must ask you to leave before my parents notice your presence. It would be," and he glances at Smaug, "too difficult to explain."

And Thorin understands that only too well.

"We'll be on our way shortly," he says, and if his heart feels heavy no one else need know it. "I am sorry we gave you such a fright."

Bilbo rubs at his cheek with one finger. "Well, it'll be an interesting story to tell later." He smiles and holds out his hand. Thorin takes it, truly only intending to shake it, to bid his farewells and leave, but his fingers linger on the soft skin a little too long and Bilbo stares up at him, wide-eyed, his cheeks beginning to color. _Take_ , his mind whispers to him, _Yours, your own_. Reluctantly, he withdraws his hand and steps back, inclining his head slightly and turning away before he truly betrays himself.

He had left his coat in a pile next to Smaug's head and he shrugs it on quickly. His hands find purchase on the dragon's neck and he is swung up and into his customary place on Smaug's back. _Walk back a little_ , he tells Smaug, because Bilbo hasn't moved.

Smaug snorts but does it all the same. His wings stir the air, and Bilbo finally takes a few steps back, shielding his eyes. A beat, another, and then they're off, racing through the clouds, leaving a part of Thorin behind.

* * *

They find a cave in the Blue Mountains before nightfall. Smaug leaves Thorin there and disappears for a while, coming back soon enough with a roasted boar. Thorin eats because Smaug insists on it, but he has no appetite and the meat is tasteless to him.

_You should have taken him._ Smaug has already settled for the night, his long body curled around the fire. _Perhaps then I would not have to put up with your sulking._

Thorin glares balefully up at his companion. _I am_ not _sulking_ , he insists. _I am merely tired._

_And why are you tired, ghivasha?_ Smaug asks knowingly.

Thorin folds his coat into a makeshift pillow and lies down, closing his eyes. _I am tired because I spent this morning chopping wood, nothing more._

Smaug laughs at him and folds his wing around Thorin. _Sleep, then._

But sleep eludes him.

Instead, images of the previous night play before his eyes, causing an ache in his chest. Bilbo had looked so young, so innocent, huddled in his fur coat. He wanted to protect him, keep him safe from all the dangers of the world, and while this was something he felt often about all sorts of folk, he had never before felt it so intensely. This was more personal, somehow. Bilbo was more important, and Thorin could not explain why. He had spent the night perched on the floor next to the sleeping hobbit, wide awake, but he could not explain that either. There had been no reason for him to guard Bilbo so, and yet something had kept him up.

He would have liked to stay longer, he thinks wistfully, perhaps come to know Bilbo a little better. And maybe, in time, he would have agreed to join them.

Bilbo has a family however, a life, a place to call home, and Thorin remembers all too well what it feels like to be ripped away from everything.

It is this thought that prevents him from going back to Hobbiton, fly over it, even just to check that Bilbo is alright. Instead, he distracts himself by exploring the Blue Mountains with Smaug by day, and terrorizing groups of orcs at night until he is tired enough to sleep. Smaug calls him many things, none of them flattering, but Thorin knows he is doing the right thing.

But the gods will always do as they please, and what Thorin believes, thinks, wants matters very little.

* * *

Something nudges his shoulder, hard. _Smoke. From the east._

He is instantly awake. One hand grabs his sword, the other his coat. He doesn't need to ask where, simply takes hold of Smaug's neck and swings himself up.

_Hurry_ , he urges, and Smaug does.

They can hear the orcs before they see them, and Thorin bares his teeth in a wordless snarl. He can feel Smaug's rage and bloodlust, mirroring his own, and when Smaug unleashes his first breath of fire upon the orcs, Thorin roars.

They fight as one, flying low above the ground. Thorin's sword slices through orc skulls like butter, and the smell of charred flesh soon overrides everything else. The orcs shriek in fear and attempt to run, but Smaug rounds them up easily. His pleased laughter echoes loud in Thorin's mind, and for a while, he forgets everything except the thrill of battle.

It doesn't take them long; it was only a small group of orcs, though more than the hobbits were probably used to. They fly over Hobbiton once more to make sure none of the orcs have escaped, but then Thorin can't wait any longer. Smaug lands smoothly and Thorin leaps to the ground and takes off running.

The back door slams open and he can see a silhouette, familiar, even after just one day. Relief floods him.

Bilbo looks wide-eyed as Thorin comes to a stop in front of him, but unharmed. "What are you- there were orcs, they attacked suddenly-" Something sharpens his gaze, stems the flow of words. "Are you hurt?" he asks, reaching for Thorin's arm.

Thorin follows Bilbo's fingers with his eyes, and for the first time notices the blood splatters all over him. "It is not my blood."

Bilbo blinks and draws his hand back. "Oh." Thorin resists seizing that hand with his own. Barely.

Smaug smirks at him. _So bashful. You surprise me._

"Your parents," Thorin begins, hesitant, "they are alright?"

Bilbo lifts his shoulders in a shrug, but he's smiling. "They were quite scared when orcs started attacking our front door," he confesses, "but then, suddenly, the orcs were engulfed in flames." His attention shifts to Smaug. "Thank you," he says, and turns back to Thorin. "We owe you our lives."

_This is your chance._ A chill runs up Thorin's spine. _I smell more orcs. They will not attack tonight, but they will surely try again._

And Thorin knows that. _They are aware of the danger now. They will be ready next time._

Smaug snorts, derisive. _I did not think you foolish, ghivasha._ And then, _You want him safe, do you not?_

A series of images is forced into his head, of orcs ravaging the village and its inhabitants, of Bilbo's home burnt to ashes, of Bilbo himself, torn apart, his blood coloring the snow a bright red, nothing remaining of his soft skin and curly locks.

_Damn you,_ he snarls, pushing at Smaug's presence in his mind, but there is little anger in it. Because Thorin understands, wants it, even though the idea of causing someone the same pain he suffered is abhorrent.

He reaches out for Bilbo's hand, grasps it tightly. "You owe me nothing," he says hoarsely. "Were I at the edge of the world, I would still come to your aid." Bilbo blinks. "You did not think me serious when I said fate had led me to you, but," and he places his other hand over his heart, "I _know_ I was meant to find you."

"Are you sure you're alright?" Bilbo laughs nervously. "You're not making any sense."

Thorin smiles as he steps closer. "On the contrary. Everything makes sense now." A flush stains Bilbo's cheeks but he says nothing. "There is a bond between us, Bilbo Baggins, our fates entwined." He lowers his head, brings his lips to Bilbo's ear, and whispers, "Will you not join me?"

Tension lies heavy between them. Bilbo's breathing is rapid and Thorin can feel his heart hammering in his chest. _Say it. Say it._

Bilbo's hand touches his chest, and pushes. "Are you quite mad? Do you hear what you are saying?" Thorin recoils as if slapped. "Join you, just like that? Jump on your dragon and fly off, is that the idea?" His voice rises in anger. "You don't even _know_ me, and I don't know you! What reason do I have to join you?"

_["You are mad, beast. I have an army behind me, ready to attack at my word. Why would I join you?"]_

"I only wish to keep you safe," he murmurs. "Perhaps you do not feel as I do, but there are more orcs, and they will come. I cannot stand the thought of any harm coming to you."

Fire flashes in Bilbo's eyes. "But it's perfectly alright if harm comes to my family, my neighbors? You think I will simply abandon them so I can be safe?"

_["I will never abandon my people!"]_

"You are dear to me," Thorin growls, and he sees it when the anger deserts Bilbo.

"And they are dear to me," Bilbo softly replies. "How could I live knowing they are in danger?"

_["I will go, Grandfather. I will not have our people die so I may live."]_

"I know I cannot save them." He smiles wryly. "All I have is a kitchen knife, after all. But I will not leave and save myself."

The soul of a fighter stares at Thorin from Bilbo's soft, young face.

"I understand," he finally says. Bilbo sags against the door in apparent relief. "But I meant what I said. I will not let any harm come to you."

The hobbit tenses once more. "And what does that mean, exactly?"

Thorin grins at him, feral, possessive. Protective. "It means that we will be staying."

"What? Now hold on just a minute," Bilbo sputters, "you can't simply decide that!"

Smaug lets out a huff of air and settles down on the ground in his customary relaxed curl. Thorin takes it as a sign of approval. "We just did," he retorts. "If you will not come with me, then we will stay to ensure your safety." Bilbo glares at him, but Thorin resolutely holds his gaze, and eventually he turns on his heels and slams the door behind him.

_So we are staying, are we?_ Smaug inquires archly.

_I cannot leave him._ That is the one thing Thorin is sure of.

Fortunately, Smaug seems amused rather than annoyed. _Perhaps you can convince him to join you after all._

_I am not sure I know how to woo him,_ Thorin sighs.

_You could always threaten to kill his family and burn his village,_ Smaug suggests, laughing gleefully when Thorin growls at him. _After all, it is how I got you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translations:**
> 
> _Ghivasha_ : treasure


	3. INTERLUDE: ONE

Decades old rocks crashed from above. Sparks, dust, the stench of death. Dwarves fled from the monster rampaging through Erebor's magnificent halls.

Flames licked at his boots but he continued onwards, pushing through the masses, towards the heart of the mountain. Hands pulled at his arms, his clothes, his hair. "It's too late, Thorin!" But it wasn't. He would not allow it.

He found the king where he had expected. The piles of gold moved and surged before his very eyes. It was unnatural, repulsive, more frightening than anything else he had ever seen.

Quickly, he grabbed his grandfather's shoulders and pulled him towards the exit. "No, the Arkenstone!" Thror cried out, but Thorin was beyond caring.

"It will not save us! We must go!"

The rumble started from below, at the bottom of the treasure trove. Gold coins and goblets skidded away as the dragon reared its head from among its bounty.

Thorin took a step back. Its eyes, its huge, golden eyes -- they were fixed on him.

His sudden fear gave him strength, and he bodily whirled his grandfather around and pushed him towards the door. Together, they took off at a run towards the entrance of the mountain. Through crumbling halls and destroyed beauty, with the sound of crashing following close behind.

"Prince Thorin!" he heard someone call as they neared the gate, and there they were, standing in the entrance hall -- Erebor's warriors, brave and loyal until the bitter end.

"Go on, Grandfather," he urged Thror one last time, and then turned, stood his ground and unsheathed his sword. "Close ranks! Be ready, it is coming!"

It arrived with a crash. Dust scattered through the air, clogging up their lungs and obscuring their sight. "Hold steady!" Thorin yelled, rubbing at his eyes. "Shields up!" His men obeyed.

The blast he was expecting did not come. The dust settled and the dragon was before them, easily fifty times the size of his paltry army. But his men stood fast, even in the face of certain death, and Thorin stood with them.

_My, my. There is no need for all this._

Thorin whirled around. "Who said that?" None of his men replied.

_Why would you throw away your lives? I have already won._

He snarled and grabbed his sword in both hands, pointing the blade at the dragon. "Do you think we will simply let you take our home?"

_All your attack will accomplish is an early death for you and your brethren._

A manic grin settled on Thorin's face. "Then so be it."

_But why take such drastic measures when there is a far simpler solution?_

"I have no need for your riddles," Thorin bit out.

_I propose a trade. I will trade back your kingdom to your people, in exchange for you._

The idea was ludicrous, and Thorin laughed harshly. "You are mad, beast. I have an army behind me, ready to attack at my word. Why would I join you?"

_Will you not sacrifice yourself for your people, Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror? Will you simply abandon them, let them perish?_

The words fueled his anger. "I will never abandon my people!"

The dragon smiled. _I am pleased to hear it. Surely you must see the profit in my offer. I do not need your people's gold, nor your mountain. All I require is you._

Tension was thick in the air, and some of his men seemed ready to attack, regardless of his orders. He thought of his people, of the fate that awaited them should they fail to kill the dragon here (and he knew they would; it was too powerful). "If I go with you, my people will remain safe?"

"No! Thorin, you cannot!" Thror pushed through the warriors and grabbed his arm, attempting to pull him back. Thorin gently clasped his grandfather's hand and pried his fingers loose.

"I will go, Grandfather. I will not have our people die so I may live."

The dragon rose to its full height and spread its wings. _A wise decision. Then we are agreed?_

Thorin turned back to face the beast that would bring about his doom. "Yes. I agree to your terms. Do with me as you will." A shout went up from among his men and he turned towards them, sharply. "Enough!" he barked. "This is my decision, and mine alone. You will _not_ attack!"

His sword slid easily into its scabbard. He walked towards the dragon, steps steady. His heart was heavy with the loss his family would sustain, but at peace with his decision, with all that his people would recover.

He stopped before it. "I am ready," he said.

Sharp claws wrapped around him and pulled him up. The dragon's wings propelled the air as it lifted and hovered in the once-magnificent hallway. He would never see it restored, Thorin thought with a pang, and then the beast was moving, over the heads of his men, past his grandfather, through the entrance and up, up, up into the open sky. The wind bit into his skin, stinging him. But it would not last long, he knew. His end would soon come.


	4. CHAPTER THREE

Bilbo likes the quiet life. His books, peace and quiet, good food and his pipe are all he needs to be comfortable and happy. If someone were to come to his door, informing him of the chance for adventure, he would sternly turn them away. He has no need for more excitement in his life; there is quite enough of that already, what with the harshest winter he has ever seen and foul creatures preying on their villages.

He still has his books and pipe, and such food as is available, but peace and quiet have deserted him, and it's slowly driving him mad.

"No, you may _not_ ask the dragon to quickly cook your meat. Honestly! Now please, go home!" He steps inside and quickly shuts the door in the face of further requests. He kicks it for good measure, not that that accomplishes anything aside from bruising his toe. He likes visitors as much as the next hobbit, but he could do without half the village knocking on their door every day, begging to see the dwarf and his dragon. Even the Sackville-Bagginses had invited themselves over for dinner one evening, much to the dismay of his father.

And then, there are the gifts.

Bilbo has been courted enough times to know that the hobbits heaping gifts on Thorin are not doing so out of the goodness of their hearts. They come around at all hours, each with a different excuse:

"Oh, Mrs. Baggins, I was just wondering if you could give me your orange marmalade recipe, oh, who is that in your garden, oh my!"

"Sorry, I see you have guests for tea. Well, if I'd known that I would've come later."

"We ran out of sugar, could I borrow some? No, that's quite alright, I can find it. It's in the garden pantry, isn't it?"

And then they find a way to introduce themselves to Thorin and throw themselves at him (perhaps not exactly throw, although for all he knows some of them could have, it is not as if he constantly watches Thorin after all), pelting him with their useless gifts (the only thing those love poems are good for is fuel for the fire), and generally accosting the dwarf and making total nuisances of themselves.

Not that Thorin ever sends them away or even implies that he finds their attention disagreeable, Bilbo thinks sullenly. Every hobbit is met with a courteous nod and every gift received with a smile of thanks. It only encouraged them further, and leads to an even greater disruption of Bilbo's life.

That is the only reason for his bad temper, Bilbo tells himself. And perhaps, if he repeats it a few more times, he might come to believe it as well.

* * *

His parents took it better than he'd expected when he told them they would be having a few unexpected guests. He suspects his mother has actually taken quite a shine to Thorin, who insists on chopping their wood for them, brings them provisions (which his mother distributes -- Thorin often brings enough to feed several families) and flies off every night to patrol Hobbiton and keep the orcs away.

Thorin also mended one of her necklaces; strands of mithril finely woven to form small branches and leaves, adorned with a diamond-encrusted butterfly. A family heirloom that Bilbo can remember breaking as a young lad. And now, whenever Thorin knocks on the door, his mother's cheeks will dimple and Bilbo will find himself sitting down to tea with the dwarf who, mere weeks ago, wanted to take him goodness knows where.

"Thorin was just telling me about the ents, dear," his mother says as Bilbo tries to sneak past the kitchen without being seen. He represses a sigh, plasters on a vaguely interested look, and braves the kitchen. Belladonna beams at him. "He's seen them, can you believe it? They live in a forest, close to the Misty Mountains. What was it called again, dear?" Bilbo's eyebrows shoot up. It was "dear" now, was it?

"Fangorn forest," Thorin replies. He's smiling at Belladonna, but Bilbo can see the glances cast his way when Thorin thinks he isn't looking. "I only saw them from a distance," he continues, almost sounding bashful.

"Indeed," Bilbo comments, letting a touch of indifference shine through his voice. "It is my understanding that the ents have not been seen for an age. Are you sure you did not merely see a very tall tree? After all, you must have been seeing it from above."

There is thunder in his mother's eyes. Thorin lowers his head and mumbles something, and Bilbo bites his lip and fights back the urge to apologize. But then those clear, bright blue eyes come back to his.

"Perhaps I could show them to you," Thorin suggests. His smooth, sultry voice pleasantly washes over Bilbo, captivating, mesmerizing. Almost, he could agree to anything Thorin said.

Almost.

"I think not," he responds frostily. "Now if you'll excuse me, I was in the middle of an excellent book and would like to return to it." He ignores the disapproval on his mother's face and the evident disappointment on Thorin's, and flees to his room.

The door opens again mere moments after he reaches his sanctuary. "Bilbo Baggins, your father and I did not raise you this way." Bilbo silently flushes. "That was quite a shameful display."

"Sorry," he mumbles, not meeting his mother's eyes. She sighs and his mattress dips. Her warm, kind arm settles around his shoulders, and her fingers gently brush through his unruly locks, as they did when he was little. "What is it, lad? You've not been yourself since Thorin arrived."

Bilbo considers what he could say.

 _I don't understand myself anymore_?

Perhaps, _What frightens me is the fact that he does not frighten me nearly enough_?

Or, _He claims that we are bound by fate, and a small part of me believes him_?

 _When he asked me to go with him, for one mad moment, I considered saying yes_?

How can he possibly explain it to her, when he finds the entire situation completely incomprehensible?

"It's nothing, mother," is what he finally says. "It's this weather, and the wolves. That is all, truly."

She raises one eyebrow at him, but thankfully lets the matter lie. Bilbo feels relief; this relief lasts right up until she says, "I have decided to offer Thorin the use of the spare room opposite yours."

"What? Mother, no!" Bilbo stares at her in disbelief. He recognizes that expression on her face, and his heart begins to beat like a wild bird trapped in his chest. "We barely know anything about him! He could be a, a, a burglar! Or worse!"

"Would a burglar bring us food? Honestly, Bilbo." Belladonna shakes her head. "I've quite made up my mind about it. Your father agrees, too. It is the least we can do."

"So I have no say in the matter, is that it?" Bilbo sounds churlish even to his own ears, but he finds that he can't stop. "My comfort isn't the least bit important."

There is true anger in his mother's eyes now, and Bilbo prepares himself for her verbal onslaught, but a soft knock on his door diverts their attention.

The knob turns slowly and, hesitantly, the door opens. "I'm sorry to interrupt," Thorin says, "but I could not help but overhear your...discussion."

Bilbo wishes very hard for an orc to crash through the door, or a wolf, or for Smaug to accidentally set fire to their home. But luck is not his friend this day.

"Well, that saves me from coming to find you later." Trust Belladonna to recover her composure faster than a warg can run. "I've already made up the bed for you, but if there's anything else you need please let me know." She smiles at him, dimples out in full force. Bilbo has seen Sackville-Bagginses crumble before the power of those dimples. Thorin does not stand a chance.

"I thank you for your invitation, but I'm afraid I must decline."

Two pairs of brown eyes regard him with twin expressions of surprise. Belladonna starts to object, but Thorin smiles and shakes his head. "It would only inconvenience you as well as myself. I prefer to stay close to Smaug, since it allows me to move quickly when needed."

As his mother expresses her disappointment, Bilbo finds himself staring at Thorin, who stares right back. The words sounded sincere, but those blue eyes clearly tell Bilbo why Thorin was truly refusing his mother's offer of hospitality.

For the first time in his life, under that steady blue gaze, Bilbo truly feels _small_.

* * *

He wrote his apology and rehearsed it many times before venturing out of his room. A quick peek around the corner shows him an empty hall, and he slips through the back door unseen.

Thorin is standing close to Smaug (Bilbo still finds it unnatural to casually call a dragon by his name) and his hand is resting easily on the glistening hide. There is a strange beauty about the two of them, reminiscent of a scene from the paintings of ages past. The fierce, dangerous beast and the brave warrior, brought together in friendship, caught in a moment of quiet between battles. They look majestic, the two of them together. Bilbo can't imagine why Thorin is so eager to come to know _him_. What is he compared to them?

He squares his shoulders, quits his dawdling and marches (well, more like shuffles, really) towards the dwarf. Thorin turns around as Bilbo draws closer, and his expression is guarded. Bilbo supposes he can't exactly blame him for it, but a part of him feels the sting at the loss of that easy regard.

"Thorin," he begins, clenching and unclenching his hands, "I've come to- that is to say, I-" Thorin's lips curve in the barest of smiles, and Bilbo's crafted speech is forgotten. "I'm sorry," he says, sincere and heartfelt, and as that smile grows wider Bilbo's heart skips a beat.

"It's alright. I understand." Of course, he _would_ be kind about it, Bilbo thinks, suddenly more miserable than he was before.

"It's really not," he says, looking at his feet. "My behavior was inexcusable, and-"

The rest of his apology is buried in the snow. He struggles against the weight on his back, not understanding the sudden sounds he is hearing, but knowing that he would have to breathe sometime soon. Strong hands latch onto his forearms and pull him up, pushing him roughly towards the dragon, who has unfurled his wings. Bilbo balks, tries to dig in his feet, but Thorin growls behind him and just lifts him up and doesn't let him go until his nose is brushing up against Smaug's hard scales.

Bilbo turns around then and comes face to face with Thorin's back. "I say," he begins, indignant, but Thorin draws his sword and stills his tongue.

"Wolves," the dwarf growls, and a chill runs up Bilbo's spine. Thorin turns his head, pierces him with his eyes. "Stay behind me. I will not let them touch you."

And then the wolves are upon them.


	5. CHAPTER FOUR

Dwarves are trained in the art of war from a very young age. The wielding of weapons takes priority, but a surprising amount of care is given to the preparation of their minds for the battlefield. This is what makes them such fierce warriors, for dwarves do not panic in the midst of a fight.

Thorin is panicking now.

The fear radiating from Bilbo is almost tangible, and it is affecting his ability to think as it wraps around his mind. There are dozens of white wolves running towards them, some of them already streaked with blood. Behind him, he hears Bilbo gasp in horror.

The equivalent of a mental punch brings him back to his senses. _The halfling is blunting your edge._ Smaug's scorn burns like fire in his mind.

"We shall see about that," he snarls, and adjusts his grip on his sword as the first of the wolves comes within lunging distance.

The wolf already has its teeth bared in a growl and Thorin crouches low, holding his sword with both hands, the tip of the blade pointed at the beast. With a howl, the wolf lunges at him. He uses the snow to his advantage and turns his sprint towards it into a slide. His sword swings up as the beast jumps over him, carving a neat slash into its belly. The wolf howls in pain amidst sounds of tearing flesh and finally slumps, silent beneath the dragon's claw.

_Welcome back, warrior prince._ Thorin raises his sword towards Smaug in salute and spins around to meet the next foe.

Between fire and steel, the white wolves stand little chance of survival. _Right side_ , Thorin informs Smaug as he quickly dispatches the wolf about to sink its teeth into his leg. One of the animals lies a little ahead, scorched but still writhing, and he finishes it off with a clean stab through its heart. When he turns, the wolves to his right are already dead.

This part was always easy between them, long before anything else was.

_Glad to see you are keeping up,_ Thorin grins madly. The dragon echoes his satisfied amusement.

Then there is no more time for banter as the rest of the wolves arrive, and the pair devotes its attention to slaughter.

They handle the situation swiftly, leaving the ground littered with corpses and stained with blood. Thorin feels the touch of claws a few times during the fight but the pain is easily set aside, and he continues to swing his blade until he can hear nothing but the sound of his own panting.

A soft touch on his left arm makes him whirl around, sword ready, and a pair of brown eyes stares back at him, wide-eyed with panic. He winces and lowers his sword, choosing to let his gaze roam over Bilbo rather than see the fear in his eyes. Fear of him, not the wolves.

He sees the blood first. "What is this?" he asks harshly, dropping his blade and grabbing Bilbo's left arm with both hands. The blood stains most of his sleeve, which is gashed at his forearm. His fingers make quick work of the material, completely ignoring Bilbo's protests when the fabric tears.

"I'm not hurt," Bilbo insists again, but Thorin has to see for himself, has to know, be absolutely sure. But Bilbo is right; his arm is whole and unblemished save for the blood. Thorin's shoulders sag in relief.

Bilbo quietly pulls his arm back. "I ah, hit one of the wolves," he explains. "It was coming from behind you and you didn't see it, so I, you know," and he gestures to the sturdy branch held with his right hand that Thorin hadn't noticed. "He didn't die, obviously, but you took care of that not long after. Some of its blood must have fallen on me, that's all."

Gently, Thorin reaches for the thick, large branch, carefully pulls on it until Bilbo lets its handle slip from his grasp. There are deep gashes in the wood. He traces them with his fingertips and feels ill at how close he came to losing Bilbo before even having him at all.

_There is more to him than he himself realizes,_ Smaug remarks.

He looks at Bilbo and sees simply another hobbit, complacent and soft and unfit for battle. And yet, those eyes tell a different story.

"Come outside tomorrow afternoon," Thorin tells him.

Bilbo blinks. "Sorry, what?"

Thorin smirks. "I have decided to train you. If you insist on fighting, you should at least learn how to wield a proper weapon."

There is sputtering, protests, at least ten objections. Thorin turns a deaf ear to them all. He hefts the oaken branch, intent on using it as fuel, but after a moment of staring at it, he lays it next to his bow and arrows. Perhaps this one is not fit for the fire.

With the help of Bilbo and his father, Thorin makes quick work of moving the wolf carcases and placing them off to the side. Bungo suggests simply burning them, but the wolves' pale fur is soft, and Thorin can think of a better use for it than the fire. "I will skin them and burn the rest," he assures Bungo, who shrugs and nods his agreement.

He manages to skin two of the beasts before nightfall. When he asks Belladonna for some warm water to wash the furs, she tuts at him and insists on doing the work herself, not heeding his protests. Thorin thanks her and rushes back out to Smaug, who is impatient to start their usual tour of the Shire and its surrounding lands.

When he returns from his patrol late that night, the skins have been hung out to dry, and the oak branch is conspicuously missing.

* * *

The afternoon does not start off well.

"If you are scared of your blade, how will you ever convince your enemy that you could do harm with it?" Thorin shakes his head and adjusts Bilbo's grip on the short staff with the sharp end that he had fashioned out of wood. "Now, try it again."

Bilbo obeys and promptly falls backwards. Nearby, Smaug snorts, startling Bilbo and causing him to nearly swing his staff into Thorin's face.

"I'm so sorry," he stammers. Thorin holds out his hand and helps the halfling up.

_You are distracting him._

The dragon smirks. _If he cannot concentrate now, he will not concentrate when orcs are reaching for his throat._

"You are treating the staff like one of those clubs your people play with."

Bilbo's brow furrows. "You mean a golf club?"

Thorin shrugs. "I do not know what it is called."

That earns him an incredulous look. "Have you never played golf?" He shakes his head. "Seriously? Never?"

"My life, such as it is, does not lend itself to such pastimes."

"I suppose your friend would rather get in the way of the game," Bilbo responds with an askance glance at Smaug. Thorin tries to imagine it; other players cowering in fear as balls burst into flames over the field. He can't help it; he chuckles.

He echoes his imaginings to Smaug. _Too simple,_ is the tart remark, and a different scene is shown to him: players launching their balls into the sky, only for them to be launched back, ablaze, and landing on quite a few bare hobbit toes. His chuckling becomes a full-bellied laugh. Bilbo looks at him, confused but smiling. Thorin decides not to share the joke.

"Here," he says, gesturing for Bilbo to turn around. He brings his arms around the hobbit, slides his hands over his smaller ones. "Like this," he wraps their hands around the bottom end of the staff.

"Slash across first." He guides Bilbo's hands through the movement. "Do not wait; they will be off-balance. Thrust forward." They step forward together, Bilbo's back pressing against his chest. "If they are smart, they will try to attack you from below." The staff swings down to block the incoming blow, upwards to deflect it. "If you put enough strength into it, you can render them weaponless. Now, the finishing blow." They turn the staff and hold it up, with its tip pointing towards the ground. They stab it downwards, through layers of snow, straight into the soil.

Bilbo is breathing heavily. Sweat causes his soft curls to stick to the sides of his head. Thorin aches to brush them back, but Bilbo is standing within the circle of his arms, and he is hard pressed to lose that.

They fit together like pieces of a puzzle, snugly. Holding Bilbo feels like the sun on his skin after a long time spent underground, cold water down his throat in the midst of summer, wind rushing past during flight.

It feels like belonging, and home, and family.

He steps away. "Let's try that again."

With his head lowered, Bilbo nods. He repeats the sequence until Thorin is satisfied he can at least hold on to the staff. He calls a halt to the training and offers Bilbo his waterskin, which is gratefully accepted. Bilbo is subdued when he thanks Thorin and excuses himself, and Thorin watches him walk away with a million thoughts spinning through his mind.

_You cower from understanding, and yet the knowledge is seeking its way to you._

_More riddles?_ Thorin leans against Smaug's flank, suddenly exhausted. _You could simply tell me what you think I should know._

_And where is the fun in that?_ Silence envelops them as night settles over Hobbiton. _Will you sleep tonight?_

Thorin considers it, but there is a restless energy about the dragon. _What did you find?_

_Trolls, to the east._ Smaug seems pleased, and Thorin rolls his eyes.

_Your greed will be our downfall one day,_ he says as he grabs his pack.

_Perhaps so,_ Smaug replies nonchalantly. _But you will come to understand soon enough._

* * *

They come upon the trolls as they are about to roast two human children. Thorin feels repulsed. _Let us deal with them quickly._

They don't bother with any of their usual hunting games. The trolls are enormous, but Smaug has the advantage. He snatches the first one up with both his claws, and the troll screams as they dig into its flesh. Smaug lets go of it and dives as the mangled troll falls on one of its companions.

Thorin rolls off Smaug's back and runs for the spit, climbing it like a wood creature. He settles on top of it and begins to hack at the thick rope with his sword, ignoring the heat licking at his boots. The children stare at him, wide-eyed. "Do not fear. You will be safe soon," he promises. The trolls' shrieks are rising in volume behind him; Smaug must be viciously toying with them.

The rope comes apart and he grabs the longer end of it, securing it to prevent them from falling headlong into the flames. Carefully, he helps them out of their bonds and encourages them to slide down the poles holding the spit up. Once they are safely on the ground he jumps off his precarious perch and lands with a roll. The children ooh and aah and he smiles at them. "Where do you live, little ones?" he kindly asks them.

"On a farm, that way," the boy points south. "We were gathering mushrooms for dinner in the woods when they grabbed us."

"Your parents must be frantic." Thorin places his hands on their shoulders; they are almost of a height. "I will escort you to your home."

_Don't take too long, ghivasha. Their hoard must be nearby._

_I shan't be long. Make them scream for me, since I suspect there will be naught left by the time I return. Greedy dragon,_ he adds affectionately.

A cold hand grasps his fingers and he gives it a reassuring squeeze. "Are you a dwarf?" the little girl asks, all breathless excitement. "Why is your beard so short?"

"Betty!" the boy rebukes his sister. "Don't be rude!"

"Sorry," Betty apologizes, contrite. Thorin chuckles.

"Not all dwarves have beards that trail over the floor," he explains.

"Do all dwarves ride those birds?" the boy blurts out, blushing a little. "I've never seen one of those before!"

_You should count yourself lucky,_ Thorin thinks wryly. "Dwarves normally ride ponies. That one is special," is all he tells the boy.

His ears pick up faint shouting and he steers them towards it. The sound quickly becomes clearer, and Betty lets go of Thorin's hand and takes off running towards the source, yelling for her mother with little sobs that tear at his heart. The boy is slightly more composed. "Thank you for saving us, Master Dwarf," he solemnly intones.

"You are most welcome," Thorin gravely replies. He strokes the boy's hair. "Go on lad, off with you." The boy readily obeys, and Thorin remains there for a moment as the family is tearfully reunited.

Smaug is curled up by the fire when he returns. From the stench, Thorin guesses he must have disposed of the corpses.

_There is a cave that way._ Smaug uncoils gracefully and leads the way to the entrance.

Thorin picks up a branch and holds it aloft. _Light?_ A whisper of fire kindles the torch and Thorin ventures into the dank depths of the tunnel.

_There is some treasure, but not much._ A pile of coins and a few chests. Smaug exudes disappointment. _There's something farther back._

He shoulders off his pack and leaves it next to the chests. The smell becomes more suffocating as he wanders, but the light of his torch is reflected back at him, urging him onwards.

It is the hilt of a sword, standing upright against the cave wall. The silver-colored metal gleams by the firelight and Thorin runs his fingers over it, awed. There is another sword next to it and Thorin lays down his torch and picks up the first blade.

Dust covers the scabbard but the blade slides out easily. It is long and slender; two-handed. Thorin hefts it experimentally, testing its balance. The runes etched into the blade catch his eye, but it is the craftsmanship that retains his attention. He has never seen the like, not even in the forges of Erebor.

He sheathes the sword and places it next to the torch. The second blade is equally beautiful, but its design stirs Thorin's curiosity. The sword's spine is straight, but its edge has a wicked curve to it. Thorin's eyes gleam as he wields it. It fits naturally into his hand and moves as an extension of his arm; slashing, stabbing, pivoting, it remains light and steady in his grasp. Thorin's pleasure increases.

_Found something you like?_

Thorin picks up the other sword and his torch. _Oh, yes._ He makes for his pack and the treasure, intent on gathering the coins and chests. Something crunches beneath his feet and he stops, scatters the dirt and leaves with his boot. Another hilt is uncovered.

_It will be light soon,_ Smaug reminds him. Thorin looks at the hilt once more and picks it up. An extra sword can't hurt, he reasons, especially since his full arsenal is still somewhere in the Misty Mountains, secreted away in Smaug's lair.

Expertly, he gathers the cave's valuables and bundles them into his pack. He lodges the swords in and hefts the much-heavier load back onto his shoulders. Smaug waits for him by the entrance, and Thorin blows out his torch and climbs onto the dragon's back.

_We have nowhere to keep your treasure,_ he muses, still thinking of their hoard.

_Perhaps it is time to build a new lair,_ Smaug suggests. _Next to your halfling._

The idea appeals to Thorin, for while he would not impose on the Bagginses (and would not leave Smaug's side so he could sleep on a softer bed) he does not relish the thought of sleeping in the snow for the foreseeable future. The hill is large; they could build a dwelling against it.

_We will need leather, and furs. I will skin the rest of the wolves today._

_You might ask the halflings for their help. It would be more valuable than their gifts._

And it would give him further reason to spend time with Bilbo, Thorin thinks, but he keeps that thought to himself.


	6. INTERLUDE: TWO

As it turned out, Smaug the Terrible had no interest in having him for dinner.

_You are coarse and tiny,_ was his scornful reply when Thorin thought to ask why he hadn't been swallowed yet. _If I were after food, do you truly think one dwarf would be enough?_

Put like that, Thorin had to admit that it made little sense.

"What is your purpose, then? Is it torture you enjoy?" It wouldn't be pleasant, but he would bear it. The dragon would not hear him scream.

Smaug snorted. _Please. You insult me._ Its eyes were bright, even in the darkness of the cave it had taken him to. _I do hope you are more intelligent than this._

Thorin bared his teeth. "Perhaps you should have asked first."

_It would not have mattered. Come, young prince, will you not rest?_ The dragon strolled towards the back of the cave and curled up against the rock. Thorin remained at the entrance, watching it, considering.

The beast smiled.

_It would be a mistake,_ its voice slithered in Thorin's mind, _to think me foolish._ It closed its eyes and before long, its breaths had evened.

The moon beckoned from beyond the cave, and the Lonely Mountain sang for his return. Thorin closed his eyes and stepped inside.

* * *

They quickly settled into a routine.

Each morning, Thorin would wake to the smell of roasted meat. He thought of refusing the food, but Smaug would hover over him until he had eaten. And somewhere in the back of his mind, a small voice whispered at him to keep his strength up. Just in case.

He had expected the dragon to keep him a prisoner in the cave, but in this, too, he was mistaken. Thorin was free to wander beyond the confines of Smaug's dwelling, with the understanding that he would return there before nightfall. _There are dangers in these mountains that you do not understand,_ Smaug had told him, and he believed it. But he climbed the rocks during the day, ignoring the sweltering heat and the harsh panting of his breath when he pushed himself too hard. _Just in case,_ his mind insisted, and it always pushed him onwards.

Of course, there were days spent with the dragon as well. These proved most surprising.

The cave itself had very little to grab Thorin's attention. As dragon lairs went, he thought the amount of treasure it contained made it seem lacking in grandeur. But some of the treasure did pique his interest; there were strange metals that he hadn't had cause to work with before, and gems and crystals of all shapes and colors. On days when Smaug deemed it unnecessary for Thorin to leave the cave, he spent his time tinkering with some of these, imagining the pieces he could have forged if he'd had the tools. A circlet for Dis, who was partial to gold and rubies. For his father, a replica of Durin's emblem, with small crystals adorning the crown. Perhaps a new set of beard ornaments for his grandfather, ornately fashioned from silver.

Longing lay heavy in his heart.

_You should ask for the things you wish for._ Thorin stared up at Smaug, startled from his musings.

"I was not aware that _prisoners_ could ask for favors," he bit out.

Smaug's gaze steadily held his until Thorin was forced to look away from those golden eyes. _Princeling, there is much you do not understand._ Its tail rose up from the ground and pointed towards the back of the cave. _You will find a chest with tools there. You may take what you like._

A part of Thorin, the greater part, could not help but feel that there was some trick to this. But his hands ached for the familiar, and his lonely heart quickly overruled his reason.

He returned with a fine hammer perfectly suited to intricate metalworking, and a pair of tongs. He dragged one of the larger rocks over to the fire blazing in the middle of the cave, deciding it would do as anvil. It would take a little longer for the metal to heat over a normal fire, he thought, but he was not pressed for time and would happily hold the tongs over the flames all day.

There was a soft snort to his left. He turned his head to glare at the dragon.

_Do dwarves breed so this stubbornness grows stronger in each successive generation?_

Thorin smiled nastily. "At least we breed and are not at risk of dying out completely."

Smaug's soft laughter echoed through his mind. _Is that what you tell yourselves so you may sleep at night?_ Thorin fumed but held his tongue. _Come come, do not sulk. Hold out your tongs._

Almost, he refused, but he thought Smaug might be further amused at his childish display. He held up the tongs and raised his eyebrow.

A wisp of fire streamed over the lump of gold held within the tongs' grip; steady heat, better than any furnace in Erebor. Within moments, drops of gold began to trickle down, and Thorin quickly pulled back his hand. The gold was soft and malleable and, awed, he placed it on his anvil and set to work.

He forgot about time and place, and Smaug left him to it, not even insisting that he eat as was usual. He could make that circlet, he'd thought when he started. But the gold had a mind of its own, and all his hands could do was obey the metal, shaping the gold into something he couldn't quite see yet. He let it lie in water for some time, waiting for it to cool and set before engraving it. He did not have a fine knife, but he had a dagger; he had worked with worse.

A small, golden replica of his Lonely Mountain lay on the stone when he lifted his dagger for the last time. Thorin picked it up with less than steady hands. Exhausted, he left his tools without cleaning them as he was used to doing, and curled up in his pile of furs, placing the mountain in front of his eyes.

Sleep eluded him that night and with it, dreams of home.

* * *

When sunlight hit the mouth of the cave, he crept outside, past the sleeping dragon. The sunlight gently caressed his face as he clambered down the side of the mountain. He paused when he reached a level rock outcropping, happy to stand for a moment and enjoy the feel of the wind running its fingers through his hair.

That was when he noticed it.

It lay hidden, buried amidst a pile of small rocks, but the sun glinted off it and bared it to his eyes. He tugged it loose from the rubble and stared at it, numb.

There was blood around the eye slits of the Ereborian helmet, deep gashes on both sides, as if a large claw had grabbed the head and-

The helmet tumbled from his hands and he scaled the mountain. His sword was at the back of the cave, but his dagger was still by the fire and he grabbed it as he slunk towards the slumbering beast. One stab, and it would be over. One stab, and he would rid the world of this menace. One stab, and he would be free.

Straight through the heart. Just one.

His teeth bared in a silent snarl as he raised his dagger.

It did not come down.

_Did you think it would be so simple?_ Smaug's eyes were blazing with menace. Thorin struggled against the force paralyzing him. _I warned you about underestimating me, did I not?_

His hands trembled as they twisted the blade, pointing it at his own throat. Slowly, the tip edged towards him, and he was powerless to stop it.

_How easy it would be, to have you slit your own throat._

"Do it then," he snarled. The point of the dagger caressed his skin, leaving behind a shallow cut.

_The problem with you mortals, is that you always think you know everything there is to know._ Smaug uncoiled gracefully from the floor. _You act on your assumptions, and what do you gain? Pain. War. Hatred. Each race thinks itself superior, and so your hatred breeds more hatred._ Its gaze fixed intently upon Thorin.

_But you. I sensed a difference in you._

"You sensed wrong," Thorin scoffed. "I am of Erebor, and I share my people's fate, whatever it may be."

_But you do not share their prejudices._ This gave Thorin pause. _Your king despises elves; it is well-known. But this hatred lies not in your heart._

"They have given me no cause to hate them."

_And yet, that does not stop your kin._

It irked him to admit that the dragon was right.

_Honor binds you, even at the cost of your own life and happiness. Do you imagine that another dwarf would have stayed here as you did? Would not have wandered from the cave one day and not returned, even at the pain of death?_ The tip of the dagger found its way beneath his chin, and his head was forced up. _Would not have tried to kill me sooner?_

"I meant to kill you today. If you had not woken, I would have succeeded. And I will try again." He remembered the helmet and the blood, and his hatred grew.

_But it was not your own desires that drove you to try._

"It does not matter. If you let me live now, you are sealing your own doom. Perhaps not today, or tomorrow, but some day, I _will_ slay you."

_Perhaps you will._ His grip on the dagger slackened and it clattered to the floor as his arms fell to his sides. He tried to move, but whatever spell Smaug had placed on him was still in effect. _But first, I think I shall show you something._

It felt like fingers inside his head, stroking his thoughts, memories. He shuddered away from their touch. _Open up to me,_ Smaug's voice blazed in his mind like a force, the fingers applying more pressure. He let go.

_He saw himself, sitting at the entrance to the cave. It was dark, his silhouette barely visible from above. Below him, clinging to the face of the mountain, something crept steadily onwards._

_He (Smaug, it was through Smaug's eyes that he was watching) dipped lower, silently observing the intruder. The moon shone on metal, and his height identified him as a dwarf. A scout, perhaps, come to find the dragon's lair. He had dealt with them before; all it would take was a mental nudge, and they would leave and only remember finding an empty cave._

_The shadow froze and peered up, not at him but at the cave, where Thorin's shadow was clearly visible, made to seem larger by the firelight, distorted into an unidentifiable shape. Quickly, the dwarf scout reached for something on his back, and withdrew an arrow. He put it to his bow and aimed._

_Smaug reacted._

_He made sure that the dwarf did not suffer. The arrow skidded harmlessly off his scaled hide, and his claw cleanly embedded itself in the dwarf's skull. It twitched once before stilling, and he tossed the corpse against the mountain side. The helmet fell off and rolled a short distance. He descended and grabbed the body before flying off again. When the river appeared beneath him, he let it fall._

Thorin came back to himself as Smaug's touch left his mind. He stared at the dragon. "Why?" he gasped.

_Do you still not understand?_ Smaug sounded almost kind.

Grief welled up in him. "I would not have wanted him killed simply so I could live."

_Indeed,_ Smaug agreed, _if there had been another choice, I would have spared you this knowledge and its accompanying misery._

He felt the truth of the dragon's words, but it did not diminish his torment, nor his confusion. "If you can control me, why did you not simply do it in Erebor to force me to join you?"

_It had to be your choice, or you would not have felt bound by it. I could not take the risk._

Thorin shook his head. "I do not understand why you would go to such lengths. What am I to you but a hostage?"

Smaug's presence wrapped around him, but it was gentle this time, warm, kind as a mother's touch. _You will come to learn that you are much more than that._


	7. INTERLUDE: FROM THE LIBRARY OF BILBO BAGGINS

Once the wood has hardened, controlling its shape becomes much more difficult. This will not pose a problem if the hardened wood is to be used for purposes such as construction; in such cases, the wood is usually cut into planks, and whether the wood is hardened or not makes very little difference.

However, when creating a weapon, the shaping must be done before hardening the wood. In the case of a spear, for example, one would first form the shaft and then carve the spear point while the wood is still malleable.

Frubo Mugwort, _Hardened Wood, Tempered Steel: A Guide to Weaponsmithing_ , (Bucklebury: 1899). 

* * *

Hardening can be done in several ways, the most common of which is over fire. It is best to dig a fresh fire pit and line it with large rocks. Then, at the center, place your logs and coal in the shape of a triangular cone. The fire should burn hot and high to ensure that the wood dries evenly.

Hold the wood over the flames, high enough so that the flames do not lick the wood and the heat does not scorch it. You must move the wood constantly to ensure that it hardens evenly. All sides of the wood must spend some time directly over the fire.

You will know that your wood is hardened when the surface appears dull and dry.

The method described above is the accepted technique. However, it is this author's opinion that there exists a better way to harden wood, that is less accident-prone and ensures a higher quality.

Rather than hold your wood over the fire, dig a hole into the ground as large as the piece of wood you would like to harden. The hole should not be too shallow. Place the wood inside the hole and bury it. Then, lay your firewood and coal over the trench area and light your fire.

It will take half an hour for the wood to harden, during which you may avail yourself of a cup of tea since this method does not need constant supervision. After this you must douse the fire and uncover the wood, which should then be turned so that a different side may gain the same treatment. This must be repeated until all sides of the wood have had their turn beneath the heat of the fire. The result will be an unblemished piece of hardened wood, suitable for any piece of fine furniture.

Perudo Twofoot, _The Elegant Nature of Woodworking_ , (Bree: 2475). 


	8. CHAPTER FIVE

The silence stretches on. Thorin stands nervously to the side as the hobbit turns the parchment this way and that, leaning over the writing desk as he peers at it. Finally, he looks up.

"I'm sorry my boy, I can't make heads nor tails of this. Would you mind describing it to me?"

Thorin feels the blush starting at his ears. "I'm sorry, I was never good at depicting models."

Bungo's smile is kind as he pats Thorin's shoulder. "We each have a different skill set. Now, tell me how you imagine this...lair, was it?"

"I thought I might use the back of your hill as one of the walls," Thorin explains, gesturing at his indecipherable drawing. "It would have to be large, and making it completely out of wood and leather would take too many resources."

The hobbit nods thoughtfully. "Yes, I see what you mean. What of the inside?"

"All we need is a clear area." Thorin shrugs a bit. "I will use the furs from the wolves as bedding for myself. I do not require anything else."

The look Bungo gives him is pitying. "Dear boy, I am sure we can do better than that." He opens a drawer and takes out a fresh sheet of parchment. Thorin watches in awe as he begins to sketch in a rough outline of a lair. "You will need wood for the structure, and then leather to cover it." He turns the sheet, adds some more lines. "I imagine Smaug will require most of the space," and he doesn't even stumble over the name, Thorin notices, "but that doesn't mean you should simply sleep on the floor. Now, if we add some steps here, and build an elevated platform into the hill, you would have a little privacy."

It is a novel concept, but appealing nonetheless.

"How long do you think it might take?" he asks. Bungo thoughtfully rubs his chin.

"There's the construction and the sewing, and you'd have to get materials somewhere because I don't think you'll find enough leather in Hobbiton for something this large." He scratches some numbers onto the parchment, pauses and strikes something out. "About a month, I should think. Perhaps less, depending on how soon you can arrange for the leather."

It sounds feasible, Thorin muses. Another month will not kill him.

"What of the costs?"

"The price of leather has rather gone up, I'm afraid," Bungo smiles apologetically. "You'll need about 190 ells, so at 2 silver pennies per ell, that's 380 silver pennies. The wood should be easier, we can simply cut down a few trees in the Old Forest."

Thorin nods. "That seems reasonable. And the labor?"

The look Bungo gives him suggests that he has said something very foolish. "There'll be no charge for the work," he enunciates carefully.

"That won't do, Master Baggins," Thorin protests, " I can afford-"

"Now now, I won't hear another word about it," Bungo sternly cuts him off. "It would be dishonorable," and Thorin does not miss the stress he puts on the word, "for us to charge you for our help, when you have given yours freely."

Thorin inclines his head. "I have caused offense; I am sorry."

"I won't have any of that, either." The hobbit smiles at him, anger easily forgotten, and Thorin is helpless to do anything but smile back. "Now, you leave this matter with me. I will draw up the design myself, and find the proper hobbits for the job." Soft footfalls sound in the hallway, and Bungo's expression brightens. "Bilbo!" he yells.

A curly head pops through the open doorway. "Did you cal- oh. Hello," he greets Thorin cautiously.

Warmth suffuses him at the mere sight of Bilbo. His arms remember the feel of him, the touch of soft curls against his skin, and his heart beats a little faster at the recollection.

"-so perhaps you could go with him?" Bungo is saying, and Thorin starts. He glances between father and son, a protest on his lips, but Bilbo is already nodding. Is that a hint of reluctance he sees?

"I think we shall try Bree first," Bilbo says. "There will be more to find there, and perhaps the price will not be so steep." Bungo nods approvingly, and Bilbo turns to Thorin. "Would you prefer to go tomorrow or today? I can be ready in a few minutes, if you'd like."

"Today would be suitable," he murmurs, and Bilbo smiles fleetingly.

"I will meet you outside in ten minutes, then," he says as he departs from the study, leaving Thorin staring after him with a bemused expression.

"He's not a bad lad." Thorin turns to Bungo, who is looking at the door with a fond little smile. "A bit headstrong; takes after his mother, you know. But don't let his attitude vex you." Brown eyes, so similar to Bilbo's, crinkle in a smile. "He just needs some time to get used to having someone else around, that's all."

He leaves the study with a knot of shame squirming inside of him. How little does Bungo know, to think that Bilbo must be to blame for the awkwardness between them. And if he knew what Thorin had done, what he _still_ wanted to do to his only son, would he still be welcomed with open arms?

He is subdued when he rummages through his pack, trying to find the bag of coins he knows he put there.

_What's wrong, ghivasha?_ Smaug's tail curls around his shoulders, offering comfort that Thorin sorely needs but does not deserve. He leans into the touch, briefly, then gets to his feet and places the coin pouch in one of his pockets.

He can't explain it to his companion; Smaug is a dragon, a creature with instincts to take, regardless of the consequences. But he is different. He cannot simply take what he wants, not when what he wants is another soul.

Even though, Mahal help him, it is all he wants to do some days. It would be too easy to grab Bilbo one day, simply fly off and not look back, stay with him in a cave in the mountains until-

Until Bilbo kills himself trying to get away, or until his hatred shatters Thorin's heart.

_It is nothing,_ he finally answers. _I am going eastwards to buy our skins._

Smaug's wings unfurl. _In that case, I shall stretch my wings. The scent of orc is in the air; perhaps I can discover their camp before you return._

He smiles with genuine affection, runs his hand along the dragon's flank in passing.

Bilbo is already waiting for him at the gate, bundled up in a thick winter coat. He glances up as Smaug flies over Bag End. "He's not going to follow us, is he?" he asks, alarmed.

Thorin chuckles and shakes his head. "He has decided to do some exploring to the west. I do not think the people of Bree would take kindly to him," he continues, teasing a little. "I believe we would not get a good bargain."

His efforts are rewarded with a broad smile. "He would put quite a crimp in my bartering," Bilbo counters loftily. A cart rolls past them, and Bilbo raises his hand. "Master Greenhand!" he hails the driver.

The hobbit leans down and peers at them. "Ah, young Bilbo! How are you, boy?" His eyes roam curiously over Thorin.

"Fine, thank you." Bilbo seems to bristle slightly, and Thorin's lips twitch. "Are you heading into Bree, by any chance?"

"I am, as a matter of fact. Hop on then, the pair of you." Bilbo easily clambers onto the cart, leaving Thorin to follow. He settles down with his back against one of the sides, and listens as Bilbo chatters easily with Master Greenhand. He doesn't miss the fact that Bilbo fields off all questions regarding him or Smaug with a joke and an easy smile, somehow managing to not cause offense as he does so.

Truly, it is a display of diplomacy worthy of the halls of kings.

He lets the rocking of the cart lull him, Bilbo's voice washing over him and lending him a feel of normalcy. He shuts his eyes and smiles, feeling surprisingly content.

* * *

The shopkeeper glares at Bilbo. Bilbo holds his gaze and smiles benignly back. Thorin stands to the side and regards the smiling hobbit with wonder and not a little amusement.

"I won't go below 90."

Bilbo shrugs cheerfully. "Come along, Thorin," he says as he steps away, "I think I saw a stall a little down the road there..."

"A'right, a'right," the shopkeeper grumbles, and Bilbo turns back to him. "I'll give ya the 50 ells for 75 silver pennies," he says with a sigh, adding a softly muttered "you miser", which Bilbo does not appear to hear, but it makes Thorin take a threatening step forward and growl. Just a little.

The shopkeeper almost trips over his own feet as he makes his way to the storage area at the back of the shop. Bilbo grins and prods Thorin with his elbow. "That was unnecessary, but thank you."

After the display he has just witnessed, he doesn't doubt that Bilbo can take care of himself where people are concerned. But still. "I would not have harmed him," he replies with a toothy smile, and he allows just the hint of a threat to shine through. It sends Bilbo into a fit of silent laughter that he quickly quashes when the shopkeeper returns with two large packs.

Thorin takes out his pouch and carefully counts out the pennies. And if he lets the shopkeeper take a glimpse at the contents of the pouch merely to watch his face turn red, neither he nor Bilbo mention it.

Upon their arrival in Bree, Bilbo had suggested that Thorin let a room at the local inn. "That way we can put anything we buy there. Save us a bit of trouble, and it won't hurt to let each merchant think we haven't purchased anything yet." It had seemed sound advice to him at the time, and he is thankful for it now as they carry the heavy packs up to the room. They quickly place them inside and lock the door again, and Bilbo expertly steers them towards the next store.

"Your home," Bilbo starts, giving him sidelong glances, "is it true it's in a mountain?" Thorin's steps falter. "I mean, I've heard before that all dwarven kingdoms are built into the mountains, cut from the stone itself, but it's hard to imagine."

He takes a few slow, steady breaths. "We do make our homes within the mountains."

Bilbo's eyes brighten with genuine interest. "What is it like?"

Thorin can still see it, as if he'd only left Erebor yesterday. The grand halls with their high arches and vaulted ceilings. The throne room, with the Arkenstone placed into the pillar, high above his grandfather's head. Dwarves mingling in the marketplace, the huge and elaborate furnaces and smithies. And, most breathtaking of all, the mines, with their strings of soft light going ever downwards, making the mountain seem like the night sky.

"It is beautiful," he replies softly. He can see the gentling of Bilbo's expression, and clears his throat. "The great halls are cut from the stone, but the craftsmanship is every bit as magnificent as that of Rivendell."

Bilbo lets out a gasp. "Have you been there?" Thorin nods. "I've wanted to see Rivendell ever since I was a little boy."

He remembers the last time he made such an offer, and it almost stills his tongue. But something has changed between them, and he can't stop his heart from hoping. "Perhaps, if you would like," he begins, cautiously, "I could take you there."

Brown eyes regard him solemnly, and Thorin waits for the refusal.

Bilbo smiles. "I should like that, very much."

Thorin feels his own lips tug up into a smile, his heart light with relief.

They do not speak of it again that day, as Bilbo haggles with the merchants on his behalf, and the number of packs in the room increases. He wonders, aloud, how they will carry it all back to Hobbiton, but Bilbo has a solution to that as well. "We'll rent a cart to ferry us and our goods back home," he waves off Thorin's concerns easily. He comes to a sudden stop. "Oh, the bookstore! Do you mind if I nip in there quickly?"

He shakes his head, and Bilbo gifts him with a bright grin. "Excellent! I won't be long, but why don't you arrange for that cart in the meantime? You'll no doubt find one at the inn's stables." He's disappearing into the store before Thorin can think to stop him and, with a small sigh, he retraces their steps back to the inn.

The cart is easy to find, as Bilbo had said. Thorin tries, in vain, to channel some of the hobbit's bartering skills, but the cart's driver refuses to take less than four pennies for the trip, and Thorin is too exhausted to argue with him. He does enlist his help with carrying the packages down the rickety stairs, and by the time Bilbo arrives back at the inn, they are set to go.

"Did you find what you were looking for?" he asks as they settle themselves in between their cargo.

Bilbo's smile looks satisfied. "Yes, I did."

* * *

_Our reputation precedes us._ Smaug sounds aggrieved, which makes Thorin smile. He walks closer, and Smaug lowers his head. Thorin places his hands on both sides of it, and gently rests his forehead against the dragon's nose. He breathes in, lets out a drawn sigh, relishing the moment.

_How so?_

Smaug's exhalation tickles his face. _The orcs must have been warned, for I could find no trace of them._ A dark edge enters his thoughts. _It feels different this time, as if something is brewing. I do not like this._

Thorin rubs his forehead gently against the smooth scales before stepping back. _We will handle it, when the time comes._ Fierce agreement fills his mind.

_You seem pleased. I take it your trip was successful?_

_We managed to procure enough leather for our lair._ He sits down next to the blazing fire and reaches for his pack. Carefully, he takes out the three strange swords, then unearths his cleaning kit. He goes through the familiar motions, enjoying the sound of fabric on metal, steadily revealing the beauty of the blades from beneath their layers of dust.

_Elvish swords,_ Smaug remarks when Thorin unsheathes the curved blade he had admired so ardently. _Impressive._

_Do you know what they say?_ Curiously, Thorin focuses on the runes carved upon the blade, and shares his vision with the dragon.

_Orcrist. It means Goblin Cleaver._

Thorin lays it to the side and picks up another sword. _What of this one?_

_Glamdring, the Foe-Hammer. I recall this one. It belonged to the King of Gondolin._

_The third sword does not have any runes,_ Thorin muses as he glances over the shortest of the three. _But the craftsmanship is similar._

_Perhaps it was a simple soldier's sword._

Perhaps it had been. But as Thorin runs his hands over the sword, he cannot help but feel that the sword still has much to give, that there is a name on the lip of it, simply waiting to be discovered and engraved within the metal.

* * *

Bungo is as good as his word. Construction on their lair starts quickly, a constant stream of hobbits passing through the garden Thorin has been living in since his arrival. Most of them stare, at him as well as Smaug. Most of them are also friendly, always offering a greeting or a share of their food and drink. He cannot help but compare it to Erebor, where strangers are treated with mistrust, never welcomed as though they could belong if they wished to.

He sees a lot of Bilbo during this time, for the young hobbit often brings out tea or beer for the workers, then stays a while, often finding him among the crowd. He asks questions about Thorin's home and the lives of dwarves, and Thorin is torn between fond amusement at Bilbo's insatiable curiosity, and dread that Bilbo will, someday, ask him the questions he cannot answer.

When he finds the time, he draws Bilbo over to the very edge of the garden, as far away from the construction as they can go, and thrusts the wooden practice sword into the hobbit's hands. Bilbo often grumbles, but endures the training nonetheless, and Thorin finds himself pleased by his progress. They gather a small audience on occasion, but neither of them pays the onlookers much heed.

Their interactions do give him a chance to observe Bilbo, uncover more of the facets of his personality. Headstrong, as his father called him, with a strong attachment to his village. But there is also a longing there, to see more of the world, and an unfilled, nameless yearning that Thorin can empathize with, one that echoes within him as well. He knows now the key to ease his, and aches to be the one to bring peace to Bilbo in return.

But it matters little when the one he pines for seems to be leaning towards another.

* * *

He has Bilbo crowded up against the wall, one hand resting near that curly hair. He says something and Bilbo laughs, eyes crinkling. He smirks, leans closer to whisper something, lips hovering over Bilbo's ear.

Thorin sees it, from a distance, and something comes undone. He draws closer to the pair, the din of construction drowned by the rage coursing through him. There is a snarl on his lips and death in his eyes. His hand reaches for the sword at his hip, and when the pair finally notice him the other hobbit staggers back in satisfying fear.

The blade swings whisper-soft through the air.


	9. INTERLUDE: FROM THE LIBRARY OF BILBO BAGGINS

**The Legend of the Dragon Rider**

This folk tale started spreading sometime during T.A. 2780. The origin of this story is unknown; rather, it would be more accurate to say that it has several sources, all entirely different.

_Domain of Dwarves: Azug Kharubâl (Dragon Rider)_

For all that the stories claim the Dragon Rider is a dwarf, the dwarves themselves have little to say about this mysterious character. This could, however, be attributed to their tendency to secrecy.

His true name is not mentioned. Rather, the dwarves call him Dragon Rider. It is also not known which of the dwarven kingdoms he hails from. The dwarven tale is quite similar to that of men; it states that one of the dragons, upon attempting to murder its victim, was captured and enslaved by him instead. It is said that during their time of need, when they call upon the skies, the Dragon Rider will come and ensure their victory.

_Lands of Men: The Harbinger_

Little is known about the Harbinger. It is speculated that the Harbinger is of dwarven origin, but there is no proof to support such a claim, nor any accounts from people who have met or witnessed the Harbinger. Indeed, his origins seem to be derived from the other tales surrounding the Dragon Rider.

The legend claims that one of the dragons was tamed by its intended victim, a dwarf. But by using his wit, the dwarf took control of the dragon and its hoard instead, and has since used both to help other occupants of Middle Earth. How this dwarf tamed the dragon is not explained and merely taken as truth.

The Harbinger has not participated in any large-scale war or battles concerning the lands of men. Instead, he has helped small parties or individuals at their times of need. The Harbinger always attacks from the sky, and never stays after the last foe has been slain. His name and age are not known.

_Elven Realms: Narnorthor (He Who Rides Fire)_

As is to be expected, the elven version of this legend is rather more romanticized.

It is interesting that their version also casts a dwarf as the Dragon Rider, but perhaps this lends more credibility to the theory, since the antagonism between dwarves and elves is common knowledge. However, the story behind his origins is rather more unique.

According to the elves, Narnorthor went to the dragon willingly, seeking to cure his beloved. Since dragons are known to be creatures of old, with all the knowledge that implies, Narnorthor was willing to offer himself as sacrifice, if only the dragon would tell him the cure. The dragon agreed, and after curing his beloved, Narnorthor returned to the dragon, fully expecting to pay with his life.

However, the dragon bound Narnorthor to him instead, making them as one. Their minds and souls are shared and will remain so till death.

They travel Middle Earth and help those in need without distinguishing between races. It is said that this is Narnorthor's influence on the dragon, since dragons are not known for kindness or generosity of spirit. They are said to ride the skies, and seen from below they look like fire.

_Black Lands: Aan Ghaashug (Scorching Sun)_

Orcs do not often concern themselves with folk tales and legends, but it is interesting to note that they too have a name for the Dragon Rider. The name was picked up by one of the Riders of Rohan, during an orc attack on one of their parties. When the Dragon Rider appeared above them, the orcs were heard to shout "Aan Ghaashug!", and many of them attempted to flee.

Rhiddyn Arandur, _Legends of Middle Earth_ , (Edoras: 2804).

* * *

People often mistakenly think that there are no female dwarves. The assumption is fairly reasonable, but entirely erroneous. Dwarven females look very similar to their male counterparts to the untrained eye. Unlike other races of Middle Earth, dwarven females maintain beards as well, often leading people to mistake them for males. In fact, their beards are considered one of their finest attributes, and carry much weight during courting.

It is true, however, that the females are few in number, which is why the dwarven population increases at a rather slow rate. What also makes it more difficult is that dwarves fall in love only once during their lifetimes, and will not accept another. Should a chosen partner perish or be in love with someone else, a dwarf will spend his or her life pining and will never take anyone else. This leads to fierce competition and jealousy between dwarves when it comes love.

Dimyr Caryn, _Unveiling the Dwarven Mysteries_ , (Dale: 2637).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My utmost thanks to the people at http://realelvish.proboards.com who helped me with the Sindarin. The Khuzdul and Black Speech were put together by me, feel free to point it out if they're wrong. :)


	10. CHAPTER SIX

His first instinct is to freeze, but the training Thorin has been putting him through comes in useful after all. He shoves Fortinbras forcefully to the side, and ducks just in time to avoid having his head cut off.

Smart as he is, Fortinbras does not linger to find out whether Thorin is in the mood to try a second time. He takes off running, and when Thorin looks as if he might pursue him, Bilbo unthinkingly throws his full weight against the dwarf.

It does little more than make him stumble, however, and that burning gaze is suddenly fastened on him. Bilbo swallows.

"Why was he touching you?" Thorin snarls, and all of a sudden Bilbo doesn't feel so frightened anymore.

Righteous anger washes over him. "And what business is it of yours?" he asks haughtily, drawing himself up to his full height. He bites back a wince; barreling into Thorin was not his brightest idea. There would be bruises tomorrow.

Thorin looms closer. Bilbo feels his back reconnecting with the wall. "I have made you my business."

The dwarf hasn't let go of the sword and Bilbo finds himself glancing at it. _Calm down. Don't aggravate him._

"And that gives you license to attack me in my own home?" he bites out, and his mind curses at him. _Let him try to attack,_ part of him thinks thrillingly, but the rest of him feels the twinges of pain and wants to cower back, disappear through the solid wall.

Thorin blinks, and Bilbo takes the opening. "Is this normal behaviour where you're from?" he inquires with a sneer. "I may not know much about dwarves, but I had no idea they treat other people as _possessions_."

He has the satisfaction of seeing Thorin flinch.

"You are right," Thorin mumbles, seemingly back to being rational. His fists are clenched tightly at his sides, sword still grasped in his right hand. "I-" he continues, but Bilbo turns his back on the dwarf and briskly walks away. He enters the house and slams the door behind him, then slams the door of his bedroom for good measure before throwing himself onto the bed.

His hands come up to cover his face, as if, by doing so, he can somehow hide from the world.

He is still angry; how can he not be at such conduct? But there is disappointment overpowering his rage, and beneath it, a thread of loss.

The truth is that he enjoys Thorin's company, Bilbo thinks mournfully. He had enjoyed their trip to the market, the camaraderie that sprung easy between them. He even enjoyed their training sessions, despite Thorin being a harsh master. The thought of losing that, the seeds of friendship they had sown, leaves him with a dull ache.

But then, he had known about Thorin's feelings from the beginning, had he not?

He should have avoided Thorin from the moment the dwarf declared his intentions of taking him away; any smart hobbit would have. Perhaps it is the intensity that emanates from Thorin that makes Bilbo unable to ignore him; it liberates something within him, something new, and dangerous, and frightening in its fervor. And try as he might, he cannot seem to fight it.

Nor, he reflects honestly, does he truly want to.

Regardless, Thorin's attitude must be dealt with.

* * *

He considers simply avoiding Thorin for a few days. Part of him still remembers the blade coming towards him, and the look in the dwarf's eyes. Fear has a tight grip on him, but it is Thorin's heartsick countenance that finally makes him relent.

He waits till nightfall, after the construction has stopped and his parents are asleep. Quietly, he sneaks out of the house, and makes his way towards the blazing fire.

Thorin is on his feet when he arrives, fur spread pooled around his feet. His face seems open and painfully hopeful by the light of the fire. Bilbo suppresses a sigh.

"I thought we should talk," he says, cuts Thorin off with a sharp gesture before he can start. "I have some things I'd like to say, first." He finds a spot near the fire (near Thorin) and settles down, regarding Thorin with a raised eyebrow until the dwarf follows suit.

"I understand you're not used to civilization," he begins, "living with a dragon and all. But even you must know that what you did was, to put it frankly, mad."

Thorin nods and lifts his head up. "I truly am sorry. I do not know what came over me." Misery shines from his bright blue eyes.

"Yes, well." Bilbo awkwardly rubs the back of his neck. "You didn't seem quite yourself, if you don't mind my saying so. So I will accept your apology."

Thorin seems only a little relieved, and an awkward silence falls between them. Bilbo hates it. "If you ask it of me," Thorin finally says, haltingly, "I will leave now, and let you be in peace." Bilbo stares at him. "I have imposed myself upon you and your family, when you did not ask me to. I disrupted your life, and almost killed your...friend. I would understand it if you asked me to leave."

"Cousin, actually," Bilbo mumbles absently. He watches Thorin closely, looking for traces of that same dwarf who had insisted Bilbo should either come with him, or he would stay. He had seemed so sure then, utterly convinced, and yet here he is, offering to simply leave.

Bilbo thinks of his life before Smaug landed in their garden, how content he had been. Well, not anymore.

"Maybe I did think of you as imposing, at first." He fixes his eyes on Thorin's, unflinching. "But I don't now."

There is no mistaking the effect his words have on the otherwise stoic dwarf, as a myriad of emotions pass through his eyes.

"The truth is," he blurts out, "I thought we were becoming friends, at least. I've come to enjoy your company, and I'd hate to lose it over- well, let's call it a misunderstanding." He chuckles a little unsteadily.

Blue eyes watch him for a moment, and then Thorin lowers his head. "Your forgiveness means much," he says thickly, "and your friendship more. I shall do my utmost to be worthy of them."

Bilbo smiles at him, relief dissolving the tight knot he has been carrying around since this morning. "There is one more thing, however." Thorin tilts his head inquiringly. "You rather owe Fortinbras an apology as well. I'll bring him around to the house tomorrow, shall I?"

"Of course," Thorin readily agrees.

They sit in companionable silence by the fire for some time, until Bilbo yawns and excuses himself to find his bed. Thorin helps him to his feet, his hand lingering a little, and Bilbo falls asleep with the memory of Thorin's warmth clutched around him like a blanket.

* * *

Bilbo wrings his hands, looking between the other two seated at his kitchen table. Thorin looks uncomfortable while Fortinbras seems surprisingly at ease. He had been quick to agree when Bilbo asked him to meet with Thorin, but Bilbo can't help but feel there is something he is missing. Fortinbras is a Took, after all; he would not be surprised if his cousin had a trick up his sleeve, some sort of retaliation perhaps.

"I am truly sorry for my actions; my behaviour was inexcusable."

Fortinbras regards him with a raised eyebrow, arms crossed. "It was, rather. Bit hard to get over something like that."

Thorin's expression grows pained. "Please, if there is anything I can do to make amends...simply name it."

"Anything?" Bilbo really, really does not have a good feeling about this.

Thorin's reply is swift and sure. "Yes. Whatever you wish, it is yours if it is within my power to make it so."

A wide grin appears on Fortinbras' face. "Would you train me, like you've been doing with Bilbo?"

Well. He hadn't expected that. He sneaks a peek at Thorin, but the dwarf doesn't seem perturbed by the request. If anything, he looks interested.

"It will not be easy. If I am to train you, I will do so the proper way. I will not make it easier for you, regardless of the circumstances of our first meeting."

Fortinbras nods. "Wouldn't want you to. I've been wanting to ask for a while, actually, but," he snickers, "I was always too intimidated. So I thought, this is my chance. And I'm not the only one who's interested, either."

That seems to surprise Thorin. "How many?"

"At least a dozen. Probably more if I asked around." Fortinbras shrugs. "We know these are dangerous times," he says, and Bilbo has never heard his cousin speak so seriously. "We'd like to be able to protect our homes and families if we have to."

Thorin pushes back his chair. "That is a noble purpose. If you can gather the others, I am willing to train you."

Beaming, Fortinbras holds out his hand for Thorin to shake, then skips off, whistling cheerfully. Bilbo lets out a heavy sigh. "Well, that went better than I'd expected." He stands up and stretches, spine loudly protesting. "I hope you don't end up regretting your promise. Fortinbras can be quite a handful." But he had seemed different today, somehow. It made him wonder if his cousin was growing up at last.

"I think perhaps you underestimate him," Thorin says with a small shake of his head. "He may be young and brash, but he understands the importance of defending one's kin." There is a hint of approval in Thorin's voice, but something else as well, something he can't quite put his finger on. Bilbo stares at the warrior dwarf, the dragon rider, whose world is so different from his own, and wonders if he will ever truly understand him.

The deep voice shakes him from his thoughts. "If you are not busy today," Thorin hesitantly says, "I had hoped to convince you to join me. There is something I would like to show you."

Bilbo furrows his brow. "I didn't have anything particular planned," he replies, and a smile instantly lights Thorin's face. He smiles back. "I'll just get my coat, then."

His mind buzzes with excitement, and his fingers fumble on the buttons. But he makes himself presentable and heads for the door, where Thorin is already waiting for him.

He expects Thorin to take the path out of Hobbiton, perhaps, but instead he is led to the garden. Bilbo suppresses his curiosity until they come to a stop. In front of Smaug. His eyes grow wide as Thorin offers him his hand. "You want me to get up there?" he almost whispers, torn between sheer terror and exhilaration.

Two firm hands settle reassuringly on his shoulders. "You will be fine. I will be behind you." With no warning, those same hands slip to his waist, and Bilbo finds himself lifted up. His hands frantically cling to the closest surface he can reach, which is how he finds himself scrambling on top of Smaug's large, smooth back. Thorin easily clambers up after him and settles down behind him.

"Hold on to his neck," he advises, and Bilbo tentatively obeys. Thorin's hands settle over his waist again, and Bilbo blushes just the tiniest bit. But there is nothing improper in his touch, and he can't dwell on it much anyway because they are rising up, the beat of the dragon's strong wings stirring the air, and he can see Hobbiton dwindle into the distance beneath them. Everything seems small up here, insignificant; his worries over Thorin, the confused jumble of his own feelings, even the looming danger of wolves and orcs. The world is spread beneath him, and they are but a tiny part of it.

He doesn't know how long they spend in the air. The sun sets and rises again, but the passage of time is mostly measured by the food Thorin doles out. "I should have told my parents I was going somewhere," Bilbo realizes after their second snack, but Thorin tells him that he spoke with Belladonna and told her they would be gone a few days.

He falls asleep several times. The first time, he jerked awake quickly, suddenly frantic that he might fall off. But Thorin was a comforting, warm presence behind him, and he reassured Bilbo that there was no chance of that. But aside from that, they speak very little. Eventually they do land, on top of a mountain range. He allows Thorin to help him down, then winces and rubs at his legs. But when he looks up, even the pain is forgotten.

Buildings are scattered over the cliff side, seemingly popping straight out of the rock they stand on. Greenery climbs the triangular roofs, enhancing but not obscuring the breath-taking architecture. Waterfalls cascade from a particularly high outcropping, and on top of it stands a circular round structure, shining brilliant white in the sun.

"It's beautiful," he whispers. Thorin stands beside him, the wind playing with locks of his dark hair. "Thank you for bringing me here."

"I had hoped to take you within Rivendell's walls, but," Thorin regards him with some amusement, "we would enter it as supposed travelers, and as such, would need to look bedraggled." Bilbo looks down at his carefully maintained clothes, and huffs a laugh.

"Maybe I won't mend my clothes next time they tear," he suggests, earning him a soft chuckle.

Smaug makes a strange sound behind them and Thorin turns his head. "Do we have to leave already?" Bilbo asks, wistfully turning back to the sweeping scenery before them. For a moment, he thinks he feels something lightly brushing through his hair and over the nape of his neck.

"We can stay as long as you want," Thorin softly answers.

* * *

When Thorin agreed to start training other hobbits, Bilbo thought that would be the end of their private training sessions. He was a little disappointed at the thought of becoming one in the crowd.

But Thorin apparently has different plans.

"I would understand it if you preferred to train with your friends, but," and the dwarf smiles faintly, "I would prefer to train you separately. You are at an advanced level, and I would not see them set you back." He beckons for Bilbo to follow as he steps back towards his belongings, and Bilbo waits patiently as he rummages through them.

"Here," he thrusts something into Bilbo's hands, "let us see how you fare with it."

It is a sword, Bilbo realizes, struggling with the length and weight of it. The hilt is too big to hold with one hand, so he wraps both hands around it and tries to lift.

The sword, with a mind of its own, tips downwards instead, and Bilbo looks at it woefully before looking back to Thorin with a pained expression. Thorin's lips twitch.

"Perhaps Glamdring is not entirely suitable," he allows, and Bilbo is thankful the dwarf warrior didn't actually laugh at him. He gratefully gives the sword back, but Thorin instantly thrusts another one into his hands. "This one should be better," he says encouragingly. Bilbo somehow doubts it, but the sword does seem lighter and is shorter as well. The hilt fits easily in his palm, and he pulls it out of its sheath, revealing the burnished blade. He puts the sheath down and slips into one of the stances Thorin had taught him, trying an offensive maneuver.

While somewhat heavier than the branch he is used to, the sword nonetheless moves easily through the air. The sound it makes while cutting through the wind brings a grin to his face.

"I believe we have found you a fit." Thorin seems equally pleased.

Bilbo nods. "I will enjoy training with this, I think." He swings the blade again, watching it thoughtfully. "I wonder if the weaponsmith could make me something similar."

"No." Bilbo blinks. "The sword is yours to keep, Bilbo." His gaping mouth seems to amuse Thorin to no end, and Bilbo quickly claps it shut.

"But this is yours, I can't simply-" But Thorin is already shaking his head.

"I insist. I had intended for one of the two to be yours from the start."

Wonderingly, he runs a finger over the decorations engraved upon the metal. "Does this one have a name, as well?"

"It does not. But perhaps," Thorin's smile shines through his voice, "one day, you will have cause to give it one."

Dazed, Bilbo runs his hand over the blade. "Thank you," he replies. For a moment, the sword seems to vibrate beneath his touch, perhaps as eager as he is to put it to use. "I will cherish it."

"Good. Swords require much care, and I will teach you to care for yours. But first," he steps in front of Bilbo, holding a sword of his own, "let us see if you can use it." He points his sword straight at Bilbo. "I will attack. You will defend yourself."

"What," Bilbo sputters, but Thorin is already moving towards him, blade swinging, and Bilbo barely dodges in time. He manages to parry the next thrust, but then Thorin whirls around him, and bumps his hilt into Bilbo's back. Bilbo freezes.

"Again," Thorin demands, and Bilbo is ready for it this time. Thorin attacks and Bilbo tries his best to block the hits and try to estimate where the next one will land. He moves fumblingly at first, but after the first few defeats, his movements start to become smoother. When Thorin ducks beneath his sword, Bilbo knows to move sideways and bring his blade down to stop the attack on his leg. He looks at Thorin, and they share a satisfied grin.

"You did well." Bilbo glows with pride. "Now, we switch roles. You will attack me, and I will defend."

Bilbo eyes him dubiously. "I can't just attack you," he protests.

"Why not?"

He flounders to find an adequate explanation. "I don't know," he shrugs helplessly, "it seems...wrong, somehow."

Thorin raises an eyebrow. "And if I were an orc, intent on killing you?"

"Well, that's different, of course."

Thorin shakes his head. "Then pretend I am a fearsome beast, come to lay waste to your village." He bears his teeth in a truly frightening snarl, even adds a little growl. Bilbo dissolves into helpless laughter.

"I'm sorry," he gasps, "I know it's not meant to be funny." But each glance at Thorin's expressions sets him giggling again.

The touch of a blade at his throat makes him stop. Thorin is standing close behind him. "Is it still amusing now?" he whispers, and a shiver runs up Bilbo's spine. "Are you not frightened yet?"

Bilbo tilts his head backwards until it hits Thorin's breastplate. He looks into those blue eyes, and smiles. "Not in the slightest."

They stand like that for a moment, and Bilbo holds his breath, hoping for- he doesn't know what for. But Thorin flicks his blade away and steps back, shaking his head as Bilbo regains his balance. "You are quite hopeless," he declares, but he seems amused more than anything. Bilbo grins cheekily.

The shift in expression is subtle, but Bilbo has come to understand Thorin's moods quite well. "What's wrong?" he asks, as Thorin tilts his head and stares off into the direction of the village. Smaug, who had been observing them from his regular sunning spot, rises.

"Something comes."


	11. INTERLUDE: THREE

He does not realize.

It is possible he still thinks of his reactions as normal. But after more than a century together, I rather thought I had trained him out of taking everything at face value.

To me, it is clear whenever I see him with the halfling.

They call it dragon sickness, but that is a misnomer; for it is a sickness shared by men, dwarves, even elves. They misinterpret it, do not understand its symptoms. The King Under the Mountain suffers from it, say the dwarves, whispering, worried what might become of him. And the elves, they gloat, thinking themselves immune and safe, that the dragon sickness cannot possibly afflict anyone not of dwarven origin.

They are all too immature to distinguish between their so-called dragon sickness, and simple greed.

It was never Thror who suffered from this illness. What ailed Thror was simple greed, albeit of a severe nature. But Thorin has always had it.

I sensed from the start a kinship between us, for even with all the gold of Erebor at his fingertips, his heart still yearned. But still, after all these years, he does not understand. He does not see his behaviour as unusual, but to me, it speaks volumes.

He always berated me for my jealous guarding of him. It took him some time to realize what was happening, for he did not usually linger in the villages he enjoyed visiting. But when he did, quarrels would break out. Not always over him, although those were frequent. But his mere presence seemed to draw negative energy to the townspeople, and fights would erupt commonly during his stays.

It shook him when one of the humans stabbed another with a knife, simply because both desired him. But it took another three months for him to discover I had something to do with it.

I did not lie to him, and I remember how his anger blazed when he learned of the dragon-spell. He insisted I stop using it on him, that he was not part of my hoard, that he did not need shelter from the outside world. He was not a possession, gold to be squabbled over. But he is infinitely more precious than my hoard, and worth protecting. However, it was causing him grief, and so I agreed.

He does not know what I did to those who dared accost him once I had lifted it. But he is mine, and I will keep him and protect him as I see fit.

I see his fierce protectiveness towards the halfling, and his burning jealousy. I see the desire to possess and own that he is keeping checked. Perhaps that is the difference between us; he will remain inhibited by his upbringing, and perhaps it will keep him away from his Treasure.

While I stopped at nothing to obtain mine.


	12. INTERLUDE: FROM THE LIBRARY OF BILBO BAGGINS

Dwarves value material things, and this shines through in their courtship rituals. There are no complex rules or procedures when one dwarf starts to court another. The courtship concentrates mostly on the exchange of gifts.

The number of gifts exchanged between the couple varies, depending on the social standing of the concerned families. Working class dwarves may exchange as little as one or two items, while members of the royal line can decide to exchange as many as ten. However, the number of gifts is usually up to the couple, and traditional amounts are often abandoned.

The first offering serves as a declaration of intent. Jewelry and ornaments are very common first gifts, but for members of the royal family weapons are a more traditional choice. When the second party returns with their own offering, it is taken as a gesture of acceptance, and this is when the courting truly begins.

As I have explained before, the actual number of gifts matters very little, but each gift must always be reciprocated. To not do so may signify the end of the courtship and cause severe offense.

The final gift is usually accompanied by an offer of bonding and should be something tailored specifically to the recipient.

Dimyr Caryn, _Unveiling the Dwarven Mysteries_ , (Dale: 2637).

* * *

_Dáin I - T.A 2585_  
After the death of his father, Dáin I ascended to the throne. During his reign, the attacks of the dragons on the Grey Mountains continued. When he was slain in battle by a drake, his eldest Thrór became king.

 _Thrór - T.A 2589_  
Thrór and his remaining brother Grór decided to divide their folk. Grór would lead over half the folk of Durin to the iron Hills, while Thrór took his people back to Erebor, abandoning the Grey Mountains. Erebor prospered under his leadership, and the line of succession was secured with the birth of his son, Thrain, and his two grandsons, Thorin and Frerin.

A dragon attacked Erebor during T.A 2746. While the Ereborian army managed to defend the kingdom successfully, the line of Durin sustained a heavy loss when Thrór's eldest grandson went missing. He has not been found and is presumed dead.

Degnar, son of Disin, _The Royal Lineage of the Dwarven Kingdoms_ , (Erebor: 2869).


	13. CHAPTER SEVEN

He doesn't quite understand what happened.

When Thorin said something was coming, Bilbo had been fully prepared for a pack of wolves, or orcs, or some other horror they hadn't faced yet to come crashing into his village. Instead, Thorin's expression had gone dark and broody. He'd left with a brief apology, leaving Bilbo to wonder what could be bad enough to drive away the bravest person he has ever known.

He makes a short circuit around Bag End, clutching his sword like a talisman. But nothing jumps out at him, and he enters his home with a sense of unease.

A tall ( _very_ tall) man sits at his kitchen table.

His mother beams at him. "Look who has come to visit!" Bilbo stares, uncomprehending. Belladonna huffs. "Honestly, Bilbo! Don't you remember Gandalf?"

Bilbo vaguely remembers pulling on a long beard, the scent of pipe-weed and bright lights in the sky. Gandalf's blue eyes twinkle.

"That's quite alright, my dear, he was very young when I last passed through." His eyes land on the sword. "That is quite a fine sword you have there."

There is something about his tone that sets Bilbo on edge. He calmly sheathes the sword. "It was a gift," he responds guardedly.

"An extravagant gift." He sips on his tea and takes a scone off the plate Belladonna places before him. He thanks her with a smile. "Unless my eyes deceive me, that is an elven blade."

_Yes, thank you, I gathered as much_ , Bilbo thinks tartly, but he fakes polite interest, if only to prevent his mother from boxing his ears. "Yes, it is. What brings you to these parts?"

Gandalf takes a puff from his pipe. "Oh, this and that. I heard a few curious rumors and decided to see where they would lead."

Belladonna laughs. "Your curiosity will be the death of you one day." Gandalf chuckles, and Bilbo's unease grows into suspicion.

"Yes, well, some rumors are simply too intriguing to let go."

"And what rumor led you to our peaceful little village?" Bilbo asks. He holds Gandalf's piercing gaze steadily.

"There are those who say that the Shire has found itself a guardian." He keeps his face impassive, refusing to give Gandalf the satisfaction of a reaction. "A dwarf, accompanied by a dragon. Perhaps you have seen them?"

"He passed by here some time ago," Bilbo interjects before his mother can begin to gush over Thorin. "Saved us from an orc attack and went on his way again." Belladonna gives him a strange look, but he ignores her. Something in him feels suddenly more confident that Gandalf is the reason behind Thorin's sudden departure. And if that is the case...

Bilbo protects those he cares for, too.

"I see." Gandalf doesn't believe him; that much is clear in his eyes. "Well, I must admit I am rather disappointed. I had hoped to speak with him on a rather important matter." He takes another puff. "But perhaps, if I stay for a little while, I may be fortunate enough to run into him."

"Of course you must stay! I'll make up your usual room." Bilbo suppresses a groan.

"I am grateful, as always," Gandalf says graciously, smiling at Belladonna with genuine fondness. "I must admit, I have missed your marvelous cooking." Belladonna blushes and waves off the praise, and Bilbo slips out of the kitchen and leaves them to it.

He bars the door to his bedroom, just in case, and sits on his bed with the sword on his lap. If Gandalf is staying, that means Thorin will most likely keep away. Thorin or Smaug must have felt him coming, Bilbo muses, but does that mean that Gandalf can sense them as well? He may not remember much about the old man, but he does remember that he is a wizard of some sort.

Not that he looks like much of one.

But surely, if he could sense them, he wouldn't linger here on the off chance that they would return. Bilbo sighs.

He really doesn't like this one bit.

* * *

Bilbo's suspicions prove correct. Thorin has not shown himself since Gandalf appeared on their doorstep two days ago. Bilbo makes a point of often taking a stroll about the garden under the pretense of checking on the construction (when Gandalf asked, he said it was so he could have a little area to himself, but the wizard took that as he took all of Bilbo's answers). But Smaug's usual spot remains empty, and Thorin never appears to greet him with a smile or, as he had grown fond of doing, with a surprise attack to enhance Bilbo's training. The garden remains empty, and Bilbo grows increasingly grumpy.

It also does not help that Gandalf will not cease his questions. Bilbo has never been very good at lying; his mother could always tell, and there was simply not much need for it. But he tries now; he evades Gandalf's intuitive, intrusive questions, claims prior commitments when Gandalf tries to trap him in conversation, pretends ignorance when he is questioned about Smaug and Thorin. But as his worry over the pair and Gandalf's purpose grows, he finds it harder to remember the lies he's told. Did he say Thorin had stayed the night, or did he say they had left immediately after the attack?

He knows he can't keep it up for much longer.

He sneaks out late at night and makes for the top of their hill. Thorin's lair is visible from where he is standing. It is quickly taking shape, and the structure casts a shadow on the ground. Bilbo lets out his breath in a heavy sigh and closes his eyes.

Tentatively, he tries to project his thoughts outwards.

_Thorin!_ his mind calls. _We need you!_

He waits, holding his breath. But no one comes.

It is the bite of the cold wind that finally drives him back inside, but he feels restless and nervous, and even the thought of his books hold no appeal. His feet take him towards the living room instead, where he finds the fire crackling and his favorite armchair occupied.

By Gandalf.

"I've always found hobbits to be unpredictable creatures."

Gritting his teeth, Bilbo makes his way to the couch and plops down on it, raising his eyebrow slightly.

"Whenever I think I have finally come to understand you, something happens to show me how mistaken I am."

"Is there a point to this?" Bilbo asks testily.

Gandalf's blue eyes, so different from Thorin's, suddenly seem weary. "Bilbo. I know he is here. Or was, I should say."

"I have already told you-"

"It is imperative that I speak with him."

Bilbo scowls. "Yes, well, he isn't here, and even if I knew how to reach him, which I don't, I'm not sure why I should." Gandalf raises his eyebrows. "My mother may trust you, but that does not mean I do."

His smile seems deceptively benign. "My dear boy, what reason have I given you to question my intentions?"

"What reason have you given me _not_ to?" Bilbo retorts. Tense silence falls between them.

That is when the horn sounds.

* * *

For an old man, Gandalf is surprisingly fast, and he easily keeps pace with Bilbo as they run towards the sound of screams and firelight. Bilbo pulls his sword out of its scabbard and launches himself at the nearest orc, for once not pausing to think about it first. His sword cleanly slices through the rotten flesh, and the orc slumps upon him with a shriek. He pushes the corpse back and pulls on the hilt, grimacing at the black blood staining the blade.

He spins around, suddenly worried about Gandalf, but the old wizard is dispatching orcs left and right with his whirling staff, and Bilbo ceases worrying about him because he has his own set of orcs to deal with.

One after the other, the orcs fall to his blade. Around him, he can hear the sounds of others of his kin fighting, and he feels a moment of fierce pride on Thorin's behalf. But the stream of orcs seems relentless, and for every two he kills, another five appear out of the darkness. His arms begin to ache and tremble, his breath comes in desperate pants.

And then, out of nowhere, a warm presence at his back, reassuringly solid and familiar, and Bilbo leans into it for just a moment.

Smaug is already streaking past them, adding to the number of fires blazing in the fields, and Bilbo quickly refocuses his attention on the matter at hand. Thorin's welcome appearance gives him the strength he'd been lacking, as if the mere fact that he is back is enough to make the sword feel light in his hand. He spins and ducks and stabs, again and again, and when he glimpses Thorin, the dwarf is wielding dual swords and dealing with five of the monsters.

There is a moment of quiet around them, and Bilbo scans the corpse-ridden landscape. When he sees Gandalf, he takes off running, but a sword flies past him and embeds neatly into an orc's skull. Without hesitation, Gandalf pulls it out, and if Bilbo had been amazed at his skill with the staff, the sight of the old wizard brandishing staff and sword as if he'd been born with both of them in hand is truly awe-inspiring.

With reinforcements in the form of one dwarven warrior and one fire-breathing dragon, the orcs begin to fall back. He loses Thorin then, as the dwarf jumps on Smaug's back to take care of the few remaining orcs trying to make their escape from the village. Exhausted, he lets himself slide to the ground.

He is not sure how much time passes before a strong hand is gently pulling him upright. His sword tumbles from stiff fingers and is picked up as well. "I apologize for arriving late," that familiar, deep voice mumbles, and Bilbo smiles tiredly.

"You came when it counted."

Thorin ends up half carrying him to Bag End, and Bilbo tiredly apologizes several times on the way there. It isn't until Thorin has seen him settled in front of the fire, safe at home, that Bilbo remembers. "Gandalf," he mutters, halfway to panic, but Thorin quickly shushes him.

"He is fine," he reassures softly, "he arrived here before we did."

"Oh." Bilbo sags back in his chair. "He has been asking for you. I told him you'd left." He glances up. "Perhaps you should go, before he notices."

Thorin smiles gently. "I would not leave you like this."

But Bilbo shakes his head insistently. "I'm fine. You should go, I don't know what he wants with you."

"I'm afraid it's too late for that." Bilbo frowns darkly at the wizard, and Thorin seems resigned. "Your Highness," Gandalf says with a small bow.

Thorin shoots Bilbo an inscrutable look before turning to the wizard. "Tharkûn," he responds resignedly. "So you have found me."

"Indeed," Gandalf smiles, "I am pleased to finally have a chance to speak with you." He gestures towards the hallway. "Perhaps you would care to join me in my room for some privacy?"

"Whatever it is, you may speak freely here." He crosses his arms and leans against the wall, the picture of nonchalance, even though Bilbo can see the strain under the surface.

Gandalf sighs. "As you wish." He steps into the room and sits on the couch, facing them both. "It concerns your grandfather."

Instantly, Thorin's posture changes. "What of him?" he asks tersely. "Is he ill?"

"No, he's quite well," Gandalf pacifies. "But he is embarking on a quest that could prove quite fatal."

Bright blue eyes blaze with anger. "Stop blathering, wizard, and tell me."

Bilbo thinks he detects a hint of annoyance in Gandalf's eyes, but his face remains calm. "King Thror intends to retake Moria."

"What?" Thorin barks a laugh, incredulous. "That is preposterous. My grandfather would not risk it."

"Your grandfather has changed since you last spoke to him, Thorin," Gandalf replies, not unkindly. "I have told him that he does not have the forces to retake Khazad-dûm, but he thinks I am meddling and will not listen to me." His eyes meet Thorin's. "I had hoped, however, that he might listen to _you_."

Thorin tiredly shakes his head. "I have not spoken to my family in many years."

"Yes, I am aware of that. But I had hoped-" He sighs. "I do not know what I hoped."

Silence falls between them, and, despite his best efforts, Bilbo finds himself nodding off and jerking awake in intervals. He must've made a sound, because Thorin is suddenly crouched next to him with worry in his eyes. He smiles, or tries to.

"Give me leave until tomorrow," Thorin says, and Bilbo feels very confused for a moment until he remembers that Gandalf is still there. "I shall give you my answer then."

"Very well, Your Highness," Gandalf says, and then it's just him and Thorin, and Thorin is pulling him out of his chair and steering him towards his bedroom.

Bilbo hasn't been tucked in since he turned twelve and decided he was too old for it, but he finds that he enjoys it when Thorin carefully wraps the blankets around him. His warm, strong hand smooths over his hair, forehead, cheeks, and when those fingers leave his skin he reaches after them.

"Don't leave again," he murmurs blearily, and Thorin's fingers curl around his.

"I am sorry I left you," he hears Thorin whisper, and he squeezes the hand wrapped in his before exhaustion finally takes him under.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translations:**
> 
> _Tharkûn_ : Gandalf


	14. CHAPTER EIGHT

His decision weighs heavily on his mind and heart.

Whenever his eyes stray to Bilbo's sleeping form, which happens often, his resolve wavers. Anguish tears at him when he remembers Bilbo's plea before the overtaxed hobbit had finally succumbed to sleep. The scratches on his face and hands, the slightly deeper gashes on his arms and legs, fill Thorin with a deep sense of shame. And this was just one battle, his mind reminds him. The winter is long, and wolves and orcs roam the lands. What if, next time, when they are too far away to know an attack is taking place, no one comes to his aid?

_And what if my family perishes?_

Bilbo frowns a little and twists in his sheets, as he has done throughout the night. Thorin sits still, waiting for him to settle once more, but this time his eyes slowly blink open. Sleepiness fades away to panic and he bolts upright. Thorin notices the small wince and the way his hand hesitantly touches his right side, but Bilbo sees him then, and expels a shaky breath.

"You're still here," he says, voice rough with sleep and undisguised relief. "Wasn't sure if I'd dreamt it."

"You did not." Thorin steps closer, touches Bilbo's shirt with his fingertips. "You are hurt. May I?"

"It's nothing," Bilbo murmurs, obviously embarrassed, but he lifts the edge of the shirt nonetheless.

The wound is not deep, Thorin notes. He picks up the jar of ointment he had placed on Bilbo's bedside table and gently slathers the cut with the salve. "I will need to bind it," he says, already reaching for his bandages, and Bilbo obligingly lifts his shirt further to keep it out of the way. Thorin makes quick work of it, and when he is done he draws Bilbo's shirt down himself.

The arms come next, simple, shallow cuts that merely need to be swabbed. The cuts on his face, he had taken care of while Bilbo was sleeping, but he looks at them again to make sure they will heal well. His fingers carefully trace each mark, so out of place on Bilbo's soft, young, peaceful face. At least they would not scar, but it is a small consolation.

"You're very good at this," Bilbo comments once the last of his cuts have been seen to. Thorin smiles a little ruefully.

"I have taken care of my own wounds for quite some time now."

Bilbo regards him thoughtfully, curiously. "Yes, I suppose you have." Thorin settles down on the chair he occupied all night. Even though he had rehearsed what he would say, he suddenly does not know how to begin, how to explain...everything.

"I am not sure how much you remember of last night," he finally begins, and Bilbo chuckles softly.

"I may have been tired, but my ears were in perfect order. I remember everything." His expression turns serious. "Have you decided?"

Nonplussed, Thorin sits up straight. "You do not wish to ask about any of the comments Gandalf made?"

Bilbo regards him smugly. "If you mean about your home and family, then no. I have known who you are for quite some time now." His smirk seems to grow wider the longer Thorin stares at him.

A dozen questions whirl through his thoughts, each clamoring for attention. "How did you find out?" he settles on asking, and Bilbo grins mischievously and gestures at a pile of books, neatly stacked on his writing desk.

Thorin chuckles wryly. "I should have known," he sighs, shaking his head ruefully. "I apologize for keeping my identity a secret from you. It is not that I do not trust you, simply that-"

"It would be dangerous if it became public knowledge that the prince of Erebor has a dragon under his command. Or that is what most seem to believe, anyway." Thorin nods, and Bilbo smiles at him. "I understand, Thorin. And don't worry; your name isn't mentioned in any of the legends. I just drew certain conclusions." That does ease his mind a little. "Still, I must say, I found the legends surrounding you quite a fascinating read. I don't suppose any of them are true?"

Suddenly amused, Thorin blandly replies, "The elven legend touches upon the truth in some ways." The shift in Bilbo's eyes is subtle, and fills Thorin with affection. The hobbit will not ask what he truly wants to know; Thorin knows him that well, at least. "I did not seek Smaug out. Rather, he is the one who found me."

"Maybe you'll tell me the story, someday." Bilbo pauses, fixing Thorin with a determined gaze. "When you return."

Thorin holds his eyes and tries to put everything he wishes he could say into his own. "When I return," he confirms, and Bilbo smiles grimly.

"When will you leave?"

"As soon as I gather my belongings." He grimaces. "I must speak to Gandalf before departing."

Bilbo nods and swings his legs over the side of his bed. "There is something I want you to have." He pads over to a surprisingly unorganized corner of the otherwise pristine room, and carefully lifts a cloth-covered bundle and carries it over to Thorin. He holds it out with both hands, a soft flush staining his cheeks, and Thorin feels his throat close. He accepts the offering and reverently folds back the cloth.

The wood is strong and rough beneath his fingers, the solidity of the oak easily apparent. But it only resembles the large branch that Bilbo had once defended them both with on the surface, where the claw marks are still visible. He has painstakingly hollowed out the branch, refining the edges, fashioning it into a functioning, shielding gauntlet. It feels heavy and sturdy in Thorin's hands.

"I hope it fits," Bilbo says nervously as he steps forward and lifts the gauntlet. Equally nervous and feeling strangely bashful, Thorin raises his left arm and allows Bilbo to place the oaken vambrace on him.

It molds itself perfectly to the contours of his arm, and does not prove cumbersome when he tries to move. There is faint stitching on one of the leather straps binding it to his arm, and he squints at it.

_Oakenshield_.

"Every weapon should have a name," Bilbo mumbles, clearly embarrassed. "I know that even if I asked, you wouldn't let me come with you." Thorin's heart fills with dread at the mere thought. "So let this," and he places a hand on the gauntlet, "protect you in my stead."

Thorin slowly loosens the straps and places the shield aside before turning to Bilbo. His hands come up to to carefully frame Bilbo's face and, with closed eyes, he gently brings their foreheads together.

There is a surprised huff of breath, but after a few moments, he feels Bilbo's hands tentatively touch his temples. They stand quietly, breath mingling, and for once, the familiarity of it does not make Thorin long for Erebor. "Kurdûhzu," he whispers into the stillness between them.

Bilbo's soft, put-upon sigh stirs the air. "That wasn't in the books," he grumbles quietly, but there is little annoyance in it, and Thorin smiles and opens his eyes.

"Perhaps I will teach you," he says, letting his hands fall to Bilbo's shoulders, "when I return."

The soft hands linger for a moment on his hair. "And perhaps, by then, I will have figured out what it means."

* * *

He looks for Gandalf in the living room and kitchen, but finds him standing in the back garden, eyes fixed on Smaug. "Good morning, Your Highness," he greets Thorin, full of good humor. "Did you have a pleasant night?" Thorin shoots him a foul look. Gandalf's eyes twinkle at him, but the wizard quickly turns serious. "Have you decided?"

"I have." Smaug's head lifts, and Thorin turns towards him. _Will you mind?_

_It will be an adventure._

Gandalf regards him thoughtfully. "Thror planned to leave mere days after I last saw him. I am afraid you will not find him in Erebor."

Thorin nods grimly. "Then I shall head for Khazad-dûm and hope to find him before the battle starts."

"As you say." The wizard shifts the staff to his left hand and unbuckles the sword at his hip. "It is a magnificent sword," he says, holding it out to Thorin, who shakes his head.

"Keep it," he says. "May Glamdring serve you well."

"Glamdring, is it?" Eyes gleaming, Gandalf bows his head in thanks.

"I ask but one thing in return." The wizard tilts his head. "That you stay, and protect the halflings during my absence."

Pale blue eyes knowingly smile at him. "I had planned to stay for some time. It has been too long since I last saw Belladonna, and I could do with some fresh scenery."

Thorin returns the bow and turns to leave. He pauses. "Tharkûn. Watch over him. Please."

He doesn't wait for a reply.

_When do you wish to leave?_ Smaug asks as Thorin gathers his sparse belongings.

_Within the hour._ He fingers the mithril cloth in his hands. _I will bid him farewell before we depart._

Smaug's tail curls around him, comforting. But even that does not stave away the fear of perhaps never seeing Bilbo again.

_He is not a weakling._ The admonishing tone surprises Thorin. _There is deep strength in him, and you have other matters to concern yourself with._

Thorin lowers his head. _You are right,_ he admits. _I cannot afford distractions._ Smaug's approval flows over him.

Thoughtfully, he lays out the mithril armor. It is one of the few pieces of armor he always carries with him, due to its light nature and versatility. It remains as pristinely white as the day he first found it, and the fine, golden embroidery has not faded with age. He has never worn it, preferring his own worn armor, but has kept it as a spare.

Perhaps there is a better purpose for it than to remain stowed away.

Resolutely, he secures his pack on Smaug's back. Orcrist is strapped to his waist, his broadsword over his shoulder, and Oakenshield securely fastened to his arm. He scoops up the mithril and turns at the sound of footsteps.

"Here." Bilbo hands him a wrapped parcel. "Mother wants to make sure you don't forget to eat." He smiles, but the smile doesn't reach his eyes. Thorin accepts the package with murmured thanks, and ties it next to his pack. Bilbo comes to stand next to him, one hand placed on Smaug's flank, moving back and forth in a soothing motion.

He tugs on Bilbo's hands, and places the fine mithril armor in them. "Let this protect you in my stead," he says.

Bilbo holds the armor up with wide eyes. "You should keep this," he objects, face turned suddenly ashen.

But Thorin immediately shakes his head. "I have no need for it," he tries to assure Bilbo, but there is a terror in the brown eyes that was not there before. "It is good armor; it will protect you." His words, intended as comfort, do nothing to change the hobbit's expression. His brow furrows in confusion as the armor crumples to the ground and Bilbo takes a step forward.

Suddenly, arms wrap tentatively around his waist, tightening even as he stiffens in surprise. Slowly, his own arms envelop Bilbo, who burrows further into him, face hidden. Thorin closes his eyes, tries to steady himself, to not embrace Bilbo as if this is the first and last chance he will have.

_Mukhuh Mahal bakhuz murukhzu._

* * *

He firmly does not think about Bilbo during the journey. Tension coils tightly within him, increasing as the mountain range looms ever closer. _You are almost vibrating_ , Smaug remarks tersely halfway through their flight, and Thorin makes a conscious effort to loosen his muscles, clear his mind, prepare for the encounter with his grandfather.

His hands curl into fists when he remembers their last conversation. _He will not listen to me._

Smaug's scorn is almost tangible. _Then more fool he._ And, more kindly, _You are not to blame for his stubborn nature, ghivasha._

And he knows it. But he thinks of the danger his family is sure to face, the losses they may sustain, and wonders if his grandfather would have been this foolhardy had his favored grandson not left him.

Sometimes, he wonders if he made the right choice. He strokes his hand over Smaug's red scales and closes his eyes.

On days when he allows himself to contemplate it, he can admit that, although he misses Erebor, his family, the comforts of home, he enjoys life without restraints and duties. It is one of the things he often feels guilty about; after all, was he not in line for the throne, groomed to take over after his grandfather and father? The kingdom's responsibility always felt heavy on his shoulders, unlike his brother Frerin, who was allowed to have a more carefree existence. Of course, it is now Frerin who carries the weight, while he, Thorin, roams about the lands.

Occasionally, he would wander close to home and spend time in the villages, hoping for news. He knows of Erebor's prosperity under the trade agreements forged by his brother. Of his sister's betrothal to an honorable warrior, and the birth of her two sons; Fili, and Kili, most likely old enough to fight now. Of his grandfather's increasingly volatile tempers, and his father's quiet handling of diplomatic incidents.

He wonders if Frerin still remembers him. If Dis does, and if she tells the nephews he has never seen about their lost uncle.

He wonders if his first glimpse of them will be of their corpses.

_We've arrived._

He strains his eyes, trying to detect movement on the ground, and Smaug obligingly dips lower. But the sound of battle reaches them before anything can be seen, and bitter disappointment and regret flow through him. _We will do what we can,_ he thinks to Smaug, and together, they launch into the fray.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translations:**
> 
> _Kurdûhzu:_ My heart is yours  
>  _Mukhuh Mahal bakhuz murukhzu:_ May Mahal's hammer shield you


	15. INTERLUDE: FOUR

The repercussions of Smaug's actions became apparent after one month.

Thorin noticed them first; ten warriors, no, twenty -- a small military company. He crouched low and waited silently. Perhaps they would simply pass by, their destination far away from here.

He knew it was futile even as he hoped, for the dwarven detachment marched steadily closer to the foot of the mountain. Remaining close to the ground, he crept backwards and took off running once he was sure he could not be seen, yelling for Smaug.

"You can't kill them," he demanded, tacking on a "please" when Smaug fixed him with a baleful stare.

_Do you think they will grant me the same courtesy?_ the dragon inquired archly, and Thorin did not have an answer to that.

_Perhaps if I spoke with them,_ Thorin suggested tentatively, _I could convince them to leave us be._

Smaug snorted, but his words tried to be kind. _I know you mean well, but there is no sense in placing both of us at risk. Surely you can see that._

Thorin's hands curled into fists. "At least let me try," he begged. _What is the harm in trying? If they listen to me, no life will be lost. And if they do not..._

What would happen to them if he failed was clear in Smaug's eyes.

_Have your wish._ Relief swept through Thorin. _I will stay out of sight, but I will be nearby._ Smaug's touch, still strange but more familiar with the passing of each day, brushed gently over Thorin's mind. _I trust you._

Clumsily, Thorin sent out his own feelings of regard. Smaug smiled and left.

He made his way carefully down the side of the mountain. He had picked up a few daggers before leaving the cave, and had hidden them among his armor in places that would be easy to reach should the need arise. His sword, he had left behind. He did not intend to provoke them into attacking.

When they finally arrived, Thorin was waiting for them.

"Halt!" their leader called. He stepped forward, regarding Thorin from behind his helm.

Thorin didn't recognize him. Newly appointed, then. And young, by the looks of him. Thorin pursed his lips and glared. "Your name and rank," he barked, and the other dwarf stiffened.

"Kobur, son of Naran, Captain of the 21st company." He performed the customary greeting, and Thorin bowed his head in response.

"Well met, Kobur. Do you know me?"

The members of the company began to exchange glances as their captain seemed to quail. "Yes, Your Highness."

Thorin nodded. "That will save some time. Now, Kobur," and his gaze sharpened, "you will turn your company around and march back to Erebor."

The muttering started at the back. Thorin raised his eyebrow and Kobur turned to his men. "Silence!" They obeyed, albeit slowly. "I am sorry," Kobur turned back to Thorin, "but I cannot obey your command. His Majesty ordered us to find you and escort you back to Erebor."

"Perhaps you misheard me." Kobur blinked. "You will return to Erebor and make no mention of me. Do you understand what I am saying?"

"B-but we've come to rescue you from the beast!"

Thorin spread his arms. "Do I seem in need of rescue?" He let his glare roam over the whole company and watched them fidget. "It is you who are in grave danger at this very moment. I suggest you heed my warning and leave. Now."

Another dwarf stepped forward, and him, Thorin recognized. "We will not leave without you."

He sighed. "Migan, do not be a fool. I am not in danger, as you can see."

"And perhaps the dragon is controlling you, even as we speak," Migan said stubbornly, and his words stirred the rest of the company. Thorin felt the reins slip from his hands.

"You dare insult me," he hissed, and while Kobur stepped back in apprehension, Migan held his place. Damn the fool. "I will not return with you. This is my decision."

"We have our orders." And as if Migan's words reminded him of his place, Kobur suddenly straightened his spine and drew his sword.

"Secure the prince," he ordered, and Thorin snarled as four dwarves flanked him on either side. He let one of the daggers slide from his sleeve into his palm, still hidden but ready to use. His eyes found Migan's and he put a hint of pleading in his voice. "Do not do this. There is no need for you to die here, today."

But his warning was ignored, and then, suddenly, it was too late.

Smaug's attack was swift, and deadly. The dwarves at the back were struck first, their corpses propelling forward and sending Kobur and Migan flying. The warriors close to Thorin turned quickly and darted forward. _Fools,_ Thorin thought bitterly, as they rolled over the ground screaming, armor bright orange from Smaug's breath and burning the dwarves trapped within. He averted his eyes.

A hand latched onto his arm and pulled. He stumbled, and his assailant took the chance to drag and shove him away from the scene. Thorin dug in his heels and lifted his dagger. "Stop," he said, quietly.

Migan kept hold of his arm, ignoring the knife. "This is our chance," he tried to persuade Thorin. "By the time it notices, we will be far from here. We can hide in the Greenwoods, it will not find us there."

Thorin shook his head. "And then what? We make our way back to the Lonely Mountain? And perhaps a month from now, or a year, or ten years, he will return to Erebor, to finish what he once started." He shook his head again, more firmly. "I cannot go with you." He wedged the dagger beneath his belt and placed his free hand on Migan's. "I would not see you die in vain," he said softly.

He could see the moment when Migan gave in. "The king will not give up, Thorin," he muttered. "He will send more, and then what will you do? How long will you let this continue?"

_Will you kill him, or shall I?_

Thorin blanched. "No!" he shouted, and Migan regarded him oddly. _I will deal with him!_ he added furiously.

_There is nothing you can do for him._

_Yes, there is._ He tried to calm down, for he knew he would not persuade Smaug if he could not speak sensibly. _Let me meet with my grandfather. I will tell him not to send more scouts, and that will bring an end to it._

"Thorin?" Migan's voice held a hint of worry, and Thorin blinked at him. "You suddenly seemed...not here."

The silence in Thorin's mind set him on edge, for he could not read it. Finally, Smaug replied, _You may see him, if you wish. But not in Erebor._

That it was for Erebor's protection, and not his own, was clearly implied. But this suited him fine.

He placed his hands on Migan's shoulders. "Tell my grandfather that his grandson would beg to see him, in private. I will be in Esgaroth in three weeks' time."

"You are mad," Migan whispered, and Thorin shrugged, for he could not refute it. "He will not believe me."

Thinking quickly, Thorin slipped a hand into his pouch. "Give him this," he said, pressing his golden Lonely Mountain replica into Migan's hand. "He will know."

The other dwarf eyed the replica dubiously, but finally nodded. "Stay safe," he said, then turned and quickly disappeared among the rocks.

* * *

Scouting Esgaroth took very little time. Thorin had come early in order to make preparations and to let himself be seen on the wooden paths, should Thror come asking for him. He placed guides to his location where he knew his grandfather (and the guards he would no doubt bring) would think to look. The settlement made him uneasy; made entirely of wood, there would be far too many senseless deaths on his conscience should something go wrong.

He took his precautions, made his arrangements, and waited.

Their footsteps made little noise on the wood, but he heard them all the same. He waited for the guards to complete their checking of the small warehouse, then slipped down from his beam and landed in near silence.

"Grandfather," he greeted, a smile in his voice despite the severity of the situation. Thror held up a hand, and the bows aimed at him were instantly lowered.

His grandfather's stern visage never changed. "Guard the entrance," he said, and his guards rushed to obey. But even once they were alone, the relief Thorin had expected (hoped) to see in his eyes did not appear.

"You escaped, then."

Thorin shook his head. "No, he agreed to let me meet with you."

Scorn flashed in those blue eyes, colder than his own. "More fool it. Tell me where its lair is; an army waits for you to lead them there."

"No, that is not-" And just as quickly, fury replaced scorn.

"Will you disobey me?" Thorin remained shamefully silent. "I risk much, meeting you here. But," he continued, voice gentler, "you are of my blood, and I would not squander your life."

"I am sorry," Thorin murmured. Thror acknowledged the apology with a nod.

"It has addled your mind. Migan told me as much." He made a dismissive gesture. "The spell will pass once we have slain the beast. Now, tell me of its lair. The gold you sent me, it came from the hoard, did it not? How much more of it is there?"

Thorin's heart sank.

_Your grandfather's greed dooms him_ , Smaug had said to him once, and Thorin had laughed and told him his king was wise and prudent. But he knew, had known for some time, of the whispers in the halls of Erebor. _Dragon sickness_ , they said, and it was true that his grandfather valued his treasure and spent much of his time wandering among the gold and jewels. But then, Thorin had thought, why should he not? Were it not his efforts that lead to Erebor's prosperity? Why should he not enjoy it?

But his love for gold had not cost lives, before.

Thorin swallowed his pride, and lowered himself to one knee. "Grandfather, I beg of you. Do not send more warriors. I cannot bear to see them harmed."

"Their duty is to their king. It cannot kill all of them," Thror scoffed. "Do not worry, Thorin. It will be taken care of."

He rose slowly. "I beg forgiveness, Your Majesty, but you have misunderstood my intent in meeting with you today." Thror regarded him with sharp eyes. "I merely came to ask you to refrain from sending more dwarves to find me, for you will be sending them towards certain death." He met his grandfather's eyes with grief and pity. "As for me, I am content to remain with the dragon."

"This is the beast's influence," the king hissed. "It has bewitched you, you are not yourself."

"Nonetheless, it is my decision. I am bound by honor to keep my promise to him. I am sorry."

Thror's face darkened. "Then you leave me no choice," he said heavily. "Guards!" Three guards instantly rushed in. "Seize him, but make sure no harm comes to him."

But Thorin had been ready for this eventuality. Swiftly, he ran to the stack of crates in one corner of the warehouse, and used them to launch himself towards the beams of the roof. From there, it was an easy matter to roll through a narrow window frame, and fall onto the pile of old burlap sacks he had placed there beforehand.

He took off at a run, making for the water where a small boat waited for him. He could sense Smaug's presence nearby, but the sky remained empty. He pushed away from the docks, crouching low and covering himself with a dark blanket. The dwarven warriors spread through the settlement, shouting, and Thorin observed the lights from their torches as they scanned the waterfront. But they did not see him, and when the lights had faded to small pinpricks, he picked up his oar and rowed.

Smaug picked him up at the other side of the lake, and Thorin was quiet as they flew back to the cave. The Grey Mountains seemed forbidding in the darkness, and yet Thorin had grown fond of them.

_Is your lair important to you?_ he asked, suddenly curious.

_Is Erebor important to you?_ Smaug countered.

Abashed, Thorin replied, _Of course, I am sorry._ He chose his next words carefully. _My grandfather has decided that your treasure is worth the lives of Erebor's warriors. I do not think he will cease his efforts to find us._

Smaug remained silent, and Thorin tentatively continued. _Perhaps it would be best to move your hoard to a new lair?_

_Do you think that cavern is my lair?_ Smaug asked with evident amusement. _I am not so unwise as to bring someone directly to my home._

Thorin supposed that made sense. _So you will not mind leaving the cave behind?_

_I had intended to leave it by the end of the month, regardless of today's outcome._ Thorin sighed in relief. _But perhaps it would be prudent to leave sooner._

Thorin vehemently agreed.


	16. CHAPTER NINE

The valley is littered with corpses.

Orcs stream out of the gates of Khazad-dûm in overwhelming numbers. Clusters of fighting are scattered everywhere, with one larger group holding its ground at the entrance to the valley. He ignores them for now, and urges Smaug towards the smaller formations.

Smaug's aim is accurate, and the first blast scorches the attacking orcs while leaving the dwarves unharmed. Thorin turns back long enough to see the orcs taken care of, then leads Smaug onwards, sword brandished.

They leave a trail of fire in their wake, and shouts: To the Dragon Rider! For the Line of Durin! The warriors he helped are beginning to coalesce, and now there are two solid formations rather than one.

But the orcs have spotted them as well.

They are used to fighting the monsters; groups of five, and ten, and sometimes more than forty. Those packs are usually unorganized and sometimes leaderless, and defeating them is an easy matter for a spirited dwarf and a fire-breathing dragon. But at the entrance, an army gathers under the command of one orc, with his eye set on the dragon.

Part of the orc horde splits into two legions. Thorin watches as they move carefully, always shielded by the front line as the rest deal with any dwarves that pass by. _Behind them,_ he tells Smaug furiously, and Smaug obligingly turns back and attacks the susceptible far end of the mob. But Thorin's satisfaction does not last long; the orcs regroup, changing formation to guard them from all sides, with the soldiers at the core raising their shields overhead to protect against Smaug's devastating flames.

_Their commander is clever._ Smaug sounds impressed, but Thorin has lost the ability to feel anything but fear for his kin and overwhelming rage. The legions move farther apart, each one heading for an area where dwarven warriors gather, and Thorin understands that they mean to divide them and pick off the stragglers one by one.

A horn sounds, and a third squad of orcs begins to move, led by a large, pale orc -- their strategizing commander.

_We must take out the head,_ he tells Smaug. _Once we have killed him, they will scatter._

His bare plan seems to appeal to Smaug nonetheless, and they dive once more, aiming for the third group. Once they are close, the pale orc lifts his head, and smirks.

An avalanche of arrows is loosened upon his yelled command, and Thorin raises Oakenshield and ducks as best he can while Smaug maneuvers so the arrows skid harmlessly off his scaled wings. Smaug retreats slightly as another volley comes to greet them, the tips blazing. Thorin hisses.

_I will go higher. Perhaps we can take them by surprise if we use the clouds as cover._ They veer sharply upwards, and Thorin watches as the commander orders his troops to move on. They glide silently through the sky, tracking the orcs. The other two legions are already battling large groups of dwarves on different sides of the valley, and Thorin occasionally urges Smaug down to give them aid. But the main force continues to progress, ignoring the smaller groups scattered along its way, and Thorin knows who they are aiming for.

_We must turn back._ Terror is trying to claw its way through him. _They will kill the king._

He can sense Smaug's apathy, and for one moment, he thinks he has lost.

But Smaug speeds up, overtaking the orc troops, and only stops when they are flying over the largest of the dwarven contingents. _I will fight on the ground. You cannot defend yourself with me to think of._

_Do you think it wise?_ They both look at the orcs, the sheer number of them, and Thorin remembers the menace in the pale orc's eyes.

_No. But we have no choice._

Smaug acquiesces, and Thorin strokes his neck in thanks. They wait until the orcs are closer, hoping for a small gap in their defense. And sure enough, they get their wish. Smaug strikes swiftly, swooping downward and sending fire into their midst before changing course and flying back. Once they are flying over the dwarves once more, he flies lower, and Thorin throws himself off his back.

His landing is not smooth, but the dwarves had scattered when they noticed the dragon overhead, so he manages to climb to his feet without harming anyone. He grabs the arm of the nearest soldier. "Where is the king?" he demands, and the frazzled soldier points towards the front of the regiment. Thorin bites back a curse and moves as quickly as he can through the troops.

It is not quick enough.

The orcs rush them suddenly, and chaos reigns. The dwarves hold steady and manage to rebuff the initial attack, but the orcs' strategy holds true and soon, the warriors begin to scatter.

Thorin fights his way through, eyes tracking the presence of his grandfather by the number of dwarves staying around him. He manages to reach them just as a squadron of orcs does, and with a roar, he launches himself at them. Orcrist feasts on their blood as he whirls in their midst. An axe is thrown at his head, but Oakenshield fends it off, and when he lowers his arm an arrow is protruding from the orc's skull. A dagger lands squarely in another's neck just as he is about to cut him down, and he slowly moves back towards the king's guards.

He ends up fighting side by side with two young dwarves, owners of the arrow and dagger, no doubt. He knows Thror is somewhere behind him, still secure in their midst. He can sense Smaug as well, distracting the orcs and taking down as many as he can. It eases his mind, and allows him to fight brutally.

And fight brutally he must, for the orcs hold nothing back. Wave upon wave, they throw themselves against the dwarven defenses, like the sea wearing away at the mountains. Dwarves fall before his eyes even as he tries to save them. His leg receives a deep cut, but he does not have time to fret about it despite sensing Smaug's worry. All he sees before him are enemies, and his world narrows to the blade in his hand and the feel of it tearing through flesh.

Another horn sounds. Thorin thrusts Orcrist into his enemy's eye and looks up.

The orcs are withdrawing. Thorin watches disbelievingly as the pale orc recalls his minions to his side. A few dwarves rush ahead from behind them, and unthinkingly, he orders them back. "Do not pursue," he commands, and they obey.

He relaxes fractionally once Smaug informs him that the orcs have assembled in the middle of the valley. _What of the warriors?_

_Some are making their way to you. But their numbers are greatly diminished._ Comfortingly, he adds, _I will help them if I can._

Gratitude rushes through him. _Be careful,_ he urges, as he turns around and begins to make his way towards his king.

The dwarves part silently to let him through, some greeting him as befit a commander, not a wandering prince. When he reaches Thror, two dwarves stand in his way. He recognizes them as the pair who fought by his side. They are wearing matching expressions of excitement and apprehension, but Thorin feels too weary to deal with it.

"I must speak with the king," he mumbles, and with a shared glance, the two dwarves nod respectfully and step aside.

It is not as Thorin had expected. Thror seems older, frailer, not at all like the proud, strong-headed king he had seen last. There is fear in those pale blue eyes, where once there had only been certainty.

He kneels before the king, lowers his head. "Your Majesty," he says, respectfully.

A moment passes, another. Then, softly, tremblingly, "Thorin," and he raises his eyes to his grandfather's. He stands slowly, takes a step forward, pulled in by the grief painted on Thror's face. His grandfather meets him halfway, and arms that are still strong despite his age engulf him.

He fiercely returns the embrace, forgetting for a moment that they are in the midst of a battlefield, that his last conversation with his grandfather ended in an argument and the involvement of guards. He is a young dwarf again who idolizes his grandfather, the great King Under the Mountain, and in return, is loved.

Thror relinquishes his hold first, and Thorin slides his hands to the king's shoulders. He smiles tentatively. "Where is Father?" he asks as he looks around, and the shoulders under his hands tense.

His heart fills with cold dread when Thror's eyes meet his. "How?" he breathes, quivering.

"We were ambushed," Thror murmurs heavily. "Thrain was leading the assault. He- his head-" A broken sound escapes his grandfather. "He threw it at me, as if it was nothing of import."

"The pale orc?"

Thror nods. "Azog, the Defiler." Thorin has never known his grandfather to be afraid of anything, but there is genuine terror in his voice now.

"What of Frerin? Did he remain in Erebor?" The silence provides him with his answer.

Solace comes from above in waves, gently soothing his pain and guilt. He latches onto it, lets it steady him. There would be time to grieve later.

"You must withdraw." Thror starts to avert his gaze, but Thorin tightens his grip and shakes him. "Their leader, Azog -- he will not stop. Many have died, you do not have the strength to retake Khazad-dûm." He lowers his head beseechingly. "Please, Grandfather."

Finally, Thror nods, and Thorin lets out a breath. He spots a familiar head in the crowd. "Balin," he calls, and the dwarf steps forward, bowing his head deferentially. "Sound the horn. Give the signal to retreat." He turns to the rest of the warriors, and raises his voice. "I need volunteers to draw the orcs' attention while the rest withdraws."

The archer and dual sword-wielder from before are amongst the first to step forward, and many others follow in their wake. Thorin only recognizes a few of them, but each seems determined, loyal and willing. He separates them swiftly into two squads, and explains his strategy to them.

_They come,_ Smaug suddenly warns him, leaving him with the ruins of a plan. _Make haste, ghivasha. They will be upon you in a moment._ Through Smaug's eyes, he sees the orcs running towards them, cleaving a path for the rest of their army. He grits his teeth.

"We are too late. Prepare for battle!" He gestures for one of the groups to follow him, leaving the other to defend the king. "We will rush in like an arrow, and split their ranks. Be ready."

He waits for the orcs to draw closer before giving the command. They charge forward in a tight formation, quickly thrusting into the thick mob. Upon his shout, his small army divides, each attacking a different side. Smaug swoops in, using the splitting in the orc ranks to wreak further havoc. For a moment, they have the upper hand, and Thorin searches for Azog's head among the throng spread out in front of him.

Finally, he thinks to look behind.

He runs towards them without a moment's thought, wishing to be airborne, to not be encumbered by obstacles every way he turns. He tries to shout a warning to the king's guards, busy fighting off orcs on their left flank, to tell them that the real danger is on their other side. But he is too far still, and Azog is too close.

It is Smaug who sounds the alarm for him. With a loud shriek, the dragon launches himself towards the king, gaining the attention of the dwarves, then halts and pivots towards the pale orc with another scream. But Azog does not slow down; a fresh volley of arrows forces Smaug to ascend, and Azog and his minions are upon the dwarves before they can rally.

His mace tears into Ereborian armor. His size affords him greater reach, and he uses this advantage. The force of his blows sends shields and dwarves flying when his mace impacts. An arrow lands in his thigh but he does not seem to feel it, nor do the cuts to his side cause him to halt. With blood pounding in his ears, Thorin races towards them, close enough now to hear the yelling.

And then, he sees his grandfather, standing alone before Azog.

He utters a wordless shout, and one of the dwarves notices and turns around. "Kili!" the dwarf yells, and the young archer who saved Thorin's life before lifts his bow. He aims at Azog's neck and lets loose just as an orc barrels into him. The arrow does little more than distract Azog briefly, and the filth grins menacingly at Thror and lifts his mace.

But a moment is all Thorin needs.

The mace comes down towards Thror's head. Thorin launches himself at his grandfather and shoves him to the ground, and the mace strikes the dirt at his feet. Azog roars and Thorin quickly turns onto his back to fend off the next attack. Oakenshield absorbs the blow and he grunts under the impact. He lurches to his feet, Orcrist glowing in his hand, and snarls at Azog.

When Azog swings the mace again, he is prepared.

Orcrist cuts easily through the strong, pale arm, and the mace thuds to the ground. Azog's shrieks fill the air as he staggers, blood spilling from the stump where his hand used to be. Thorin follows him as he crawls back, grinning viciously as he raises his sword for the final blow.

The spear impales his upper arm and he stumbles. Several orcs are heading towards him, but they only come to drag their defeated leader away, back to the gates. He breaks the spear's shaft with a growl and turns, searching for his grandfather. His vision blurs. He blinks, and shakes his head slightly.

Someone's arm wraps around his waist and he slowly turns his head. Dis's eyes look back at him. He blinks again. "Over here, Fili!" the dwarf yells as he tries to pull Thorin towards Thror.

"I am fine," Thorin mumbles. To prove it, he stands up straight, and buckles. Someone steadies him on his other side, and his sight blurs. Dis's hair is this same golden shade, but Dis is not here, it is the other dwarf looking up at him fearfully. "I have a sister-son named Fili," he slurs, struck by the urge to run his hand over the young dwarf's head, to feel if it is as soft as Dis's used to be.

He tries to walk but can't move his legs, and the two dwarves carry him some distance from the scene of the battle. He can sense Smaug's growing concern and tries to send back assurances, but even thinking is hard now.

"Uncle," someone is saying, a cool hand pressing to his warm forehead. He frowns, confused. "Oin!" another voice yells, and then everything goes quiet for some time until something pokes at his arm and he groans, sound rushing back to him.

"Carry him away," and he would recognize that voice anywhere. "Hide him until we take care of the beast."

_But I've already taken care of him,_ he thinks fuzzily as he is lifted.

He floats, but often lurches to one side or the other. _Don't drop me, greedy dragon._

Shouting.

Heat.

A loud, unnatural shriek, pressure on his arm.

Then, darkness.


	17. CHAPTER TEN

The construction of Thorin's lair is completed two days after he leaves, and Bilbo spends his time making small adjustments. The meager belongings Thorin left behind are now neatly placed in a corner of the large dwelling. Piles of firewood are stacked against one of the sides. There is a freshly-dug fire pit in the middle, with a spit built over it. Wooden racks stand against the hill; different sizes and shapes, to hold armor and weapons.

But it is the platform where Bilbo's touches are truly evident.

Instead of simple furs as bedding as Thorin had intended, a soft, downy pallet is nestled neatly in the corner. The furs are spread over it, and several pillows are placed against the leather-lined hillside. There is a woven rug covering the floor. Some distance from the bed, Bilbo has placed a comfortable footstool, and a torch stands on the small table sitting next to it. It looks cozy and comfortable, and probably not at all what Thorin is used to.

He spends a lot of time in the lair when he isn't practicing outside with his sword. His parents seem content to ignore his mood, and, in turn, he pretends not to see the concerned glances they exchange. But his temper grows increasingly shorter with each passing day, and his nights increasingly restless. His dreams, when he does sleep, are fraught with images of war and blood, death and destruction. He keeps the thoughts at bay during the day, occupying himself with the lair, his exercises, and helping the hobbits Thorin had started to train.

But on the fourth day, Bilbo runs out of things to distract himself with, and the nightmares begin to haunt his waking hours. Smaug's torn wings and arrow-ridden body. Thorin's lifeless corpse and unseeing eyes. They become his constant companions, driving him slowly mad with worry.

A piercing cry shocks him out of his lassitude. Heart pounding, he rushes down the wooden stairs and through the entrance, only to be met by a strong gust of wind. Smaug lands in the open space with an unexpected crash, and all of a sudden, it is harder to breathe. He runs towards the dragon, and as he comes closer he sees Smaug as he'd appeared in his dream.

His vision clears. Smaug is lying on his side, his body and unblemished wings curled around his midriff. But there is no dwarf clinging tightly to his back. Smaug opens his eyes and looks fixedly at him. "Where is he?" he asks, stomach clenching.

In response, Smaug pulls back his wings.

A whimper escapes him. He stumbles and crashes to his knees next to Smaug's claws, shaking hands reaching for the pale flesh. "Thorin?" he begs, but his eyes do not open, and he does not speak.

_He has been unconscious since the end of the battle._ Bilbo jerks back and stares up at Smaug, wide-eyed. _There are wounds, but they should not have caused this._ That draws his attention back to Thorin, and he can count the number of slashes and cuts by the blood on his armor. They are many, too many for comfort, but Bilbo thinks Smaug could be right. There is one glaring wound in Thorin's arm, where part of a spear is still lodged, but even that does not seem sufficient to break Thorin, who is stronger than anyone Bilbo has ever known.

"What, then?"

Smaug sounds grim, tired, fractured. _Poison. It may be too late._

Running footsteps come closer, and Bilbo suddenly finds his anger, a small ember buried deep under his anxiety and fear. Thorin had made him a promise, and if there is one thing Bilbo can't stand, it's broken promises.

"Poison can be cured," he says, with fierce determination.

Gandalf appears by his side then and crouches next to Thorin. He leans on his staff, and his expression almost douses Bilbo's roused spirits.

_He_ will _be healed._

"He's been poisoned," he says, and Gandalf regards him thoughtfully. "We need to get him inside so we can take care of his wounds."

With a cautious look at Smaug, Gandalf slides his arms underneath Thorin's prone form. The yellow eyes narrow into barely visible slits, but that is the only reaction, and the wizard quickly scoops the dwarf up and begins the short trek to Bag End.

_Take him to the lair,_ Smaug demands, and Bilbo urges Gandalf towards the dwelling. The ground trembles as Smaug follows in their wake. Bilbo runs ahead and up the stairs, hastily grabbing the warm furs off the pallet. He arranges them close to the fire and steps back so that Gandalf can lay Thorin down. Together, they quickly divest Thorin of his armor. Bilbo's hands only tremble slightly as he undoes the ties on Oakenshield and notices the new gashes.

Gandalf lets his hand hover over Thorin, brow furrowing. "He has many wounds, but none of them fatal." He indicates the spear shaft. "We must remove this. It will bleed profusely; we need something to staunch the bleeding until I can heal the wound."

There are no towels or sheets at hand, but there is one of Thorin's shirts, neatly folded, and Bilbo grabs it. Slowly, steadily, Gandalf pulls on the wood, and the head of the spear is followed by a spurt of blood. Bilbo instantly sets to work with the shirt, and Gandalf runs his hand over Thorin once more, murmuring something as he goes. The blood stops flowing from the wound as the bone and muscles knit themselves back together, but Thorin remains unconscious and deathly pale.

Eventually, Gandalf sits back. Bilbo glances at him, at the sweat covering his forehead. "Is it done?" he whispers, and Gandalf gives an uncertain nod.

"He is not healed," the wizard murmurs, and the brief flare of hope he'd felt dies back down. "The poison in his blood is strong, and old. I cannot remove it." He lifts the broken spear and examines the head. "Orcish make," he mutters grimly. "This must be how the poison entered his body."

"How do we cure him?" Bilbo asks, and something strangely like approval washes over his mind. When he glances back, Smaug is lying in front of the entrance with his eyes fixed on them.

Gandalf tugs one of the furs over Thorin. "It is beyond my powers, dear boy," he sighs. "Perhaps if we were closer to the North, I could have found some kingsfoil to purge it."

"What if we go and get some?" Bilbo asks desperately.

Gandalf shakes his head. "Even if you were to fly there," and he looks over his shoulder at Smaug, "I fear you would not arrive in time."

The words send a cold shiver down Bilbo's spine. "How long?"

Old, wrinkled fingers gently brush a lock of Thorin's hair away from his forehead. "Two days, perhaps three. I can do very little for him, except augment his waning strength with my own. But without a cure, it will not be enough."

A sense of overwhelming loss permeates Bilbo. _There is no hope, then, _he thinks dully.__

_You would abandon him?_

The dragon's taunt cuts into him. "I would do anything to save him," he retorts as he turns around, meeting Smaug's fiery gaze. Gandalf stirs beside him.

_Would you give your life in exchange for his?_

Bilbo looks at Smaug and remembers the day he and Thorin landed on his doorstep. He remembers Thorin's tender, caring hands, the smile in his blue eyes, the fierce way he protected Bilbo time and time again without demanding anything in return. The training that often devolved into laughter, the feel of him against his back as they flew over fields and forests, the softly whispered words that he still can't translate, but somehow understands nonetheless.

Without hesitation, he answers. "Yes."

The dragon rises. _Tell the wizard we will get him athelas. But we must hurry._

"Where are we going?"

_Home._

* * *

They only stop once on the way. Smaug declares his need to feed shortly after they leave Hobbiton, and Bilbo spends the time fretting and pacing. Based on Smaug's advice, Bilbo had brought a couple of waterskins and enough food to last him three days. But his usual healthy appetite has deserted him, replaced by the urge to go swiftly so that they may reach their destination sooner. But Smaug does seem much improved after his hunt, and seems to fly faster once they are back in the air. Bilbo is glad that the leather straps Thorin used to keep himself secured to Smaug's back were still in place; the ground goes by very fast, and he doesn't relish the thought of a tumble through the clouds should he doze off.

Communicating by means of thought seems strange at first, but their speed tosses any words he utters back at him, so he forces himself to get used to it. Not that Smaug is very talkative; and he can understand that, because he isn't feeling very sociable either. But the dragon occasionally warns him of a particularly strong wind headed their way, or that he is accelerating and that Bilbo should alert him if he stops being able to breathe. He thinks it a joke, at first, until the lack of air entering his lungs nearly causes him to choke.

He dozes in fitful spurts and quickly loses track of time. But finally, finally, a ridge of mountains looms in the near distance, and not long after, Smaug lands.

Getting off the dragon's back is a chore, and Bilbo spends the first few minutes rubbing at his stiff legs and hobbling around. _Follow,_ Smaug orders, and Bilbo hurries after him.

The cave's large entrance is cleverly hidden behind an outcropping of rock. The passage is dark and Bilbo strains his eyes. He considers holding onto Smaug's tail for all of three seconds. Thankfully, there don't seem to be any branching pathways, and after some time, they reach a large, hollow area.

Smaug moves to the left, and Bilbo gasps.

Light is coming from several openings in the rock, shining down on piles upon piles of gold and jewels. There are small alcoves scattered all around the chamber, and these clearly show Thorin's influence; white, grey, and brown furs in one, a large collection of armor and weapons distributed among several others, and one corner filled with metalworking tools, where a piece of half-formed mithril lies on a slab of stone. Bilbo wanders closer and picks it up, wondering what Thorin had intended it to be. 

_Do you know what athelas looks like?_ Bilbo starts, and quickly makes his way to where Smaug has stopped, slipping the mithril into his pocket. In front of him are several shelves carved into the mountain, with a sizeable collection of herbs carefully laid out. He frowns as he steps forward.

"It has small white flowers, as I recall," he replies absently, fingers deftly but carefully sorting through the array of plants. "The leaves should be- ah, here it is!" Triumphant, he holds up the bushel for Smaug's inspection, and the dragon appears to nod before turning around and making his way back to the corridor.

_We must hurry._

And hurry they do. Bilbo barely has time to place the herbs in Thorin's rucksack and strap himself to the dragon's back before Smaug is soaring, rushing them back to where one life is slowly fading.

* * *

They return to find a crowd of hobbits standing in Bilbo's back garden.

Smaug lands smoothly and Bilbo unfastens himself and the pack and slides down. The multitude passes silently to let them through, although he feels the occasional pat on his back or shoulder squeeze as they move away to allow for the dragon's bulk. His mother awaits him at the lair's opening, her face drawn and tired, and Bilbo fears the worst.

"Are we too late?" he asks, hushed. His sense of time is jumbled, stretched by fear; if someone were to tell him they were gone a full week, he would be inclined to believe it. His mother quietly shakes her head and without another word, he hurries inside.

Gandalf is seated next to Thorin's prone form and Bilbo sinks to his knees. He hands Gandalf the herbs with shaking hands, and receives a kind smile. "Would you mind fetching me some hot water? I will need it presently."

When he turns, Smaug is barring the exit. They share a look, and the dragon moves his head just enough for Bilbo to pass. He fairly runs back with the water, and almost drops it when he gets a look at Thorin's arm.

The wound has not healed. Black, ugly veins spread from the puncture down the rest of his arm, up to his shoulder and onto his chest. Darkness seems to ooze from it. Thorin's breathing is labored, and his pallor seems even worse. He strips off his coat and settles on Gandalf's other side, next to the bare arm. "Tell me what to do."

The wizard silently hands him clean strips of cloth. "The wound must be cleaned so I can apply the poultice."

The black liquid eats through the washing cloths and stains Bilbo's hands. He doesn't dare rinse the pieces after using them once, preferring to discard them so the water may remain clean. It seems a futile task, for no matter how often he wipes it away, more always flows out.

Gandalf leans over and Bilbo moves his hand out of the way at his gesture. Painstakingly, he rubs the poultice into the wound and the area surrounding it. "Could you bind the wound?"

Bilbo hasn't had much experience with bandages and injuries, but he remembers how Thorin took care of his scrapes and tries to emulate it the best he can. By the time he is done, Gandalf is waving him towards Thorin's head. "He must drink some of this, for I fear the poultice will not be enough."

Gingerly, Bilbo lifts Thorin's head and places it on his lap. His fingers carefully tilt Thorin's neck back, then pry open his mouth. Slowly, Gandalf lets the mixture trickle in, long fingers stroking rhythmically over Thorin's throat to ensure the dwarf swallows it without choking.

When the cup is empty, he lets out a heavy sigh. "It is done. Now, we wait."

His hands smooth gently over Thorin's cold forehead. "How long?"

"I cannot say." Gandalf dismally shakes his head. "The poison has had too much time to fester." He places his hand on Bilbo's shoulder. "You should rest. You've had a long journey."

Bilbo nods, but doesn't move from his place. With another heavy sigh, Gandalf finally leaves him be.

_He is strong. He will fight through this._ But Bilbo can't tell if Smaug is trying to convince him, or convince himself.

His fingers run gently over Thorin's closed eyelids. "Open your eyes," he whispers. Thorin's long hair is tangled and matted with blood, and it irritates him, that no one thought to take care of it. "Perhaps my next gift should be a comb. Or a new set of hair clasps."

_Or perhaps there will never be a second gift._ He shakes off the thought, but it persists, eating away at his mind as surely as the poison eats through Thorin's blood. The tears come then, trickling down. They splash on Thorin's forehead, his cheek, his beard, and Bilbo brushes them off. He covers his eyes with one hand as he shakes with grief.

Another's quiet sorrow touches his mind, and Bilbo cries for both of them until his tears are spent.

His body aches from exhaustion, and his head feels too heavy a burden for his shoulders to bear. Carefully, he settles Thorin's head back down on its makeshift pillow, and tugs his fur blanket over him. He takes another one of the pelts and lies down on it, right next to the dwarf. He watches the chest rise with each breath, but even that is suddenly not enough. He slides one hand over Thorin's chest and places it over his heart.

Thump. Thump. Thump.


	18. CHAPTER ELEVEN

His body feels foreign to him -- heavy limbs, weakened muscles, and his mind feels dull, lethargic. He remembers fighting. Was he captured? Is that why his arms feel as if they are held down? But there is a fire nearby -- he can feel its heat caressing his right side, while a softer warmth emanates from something to his left. Surely, if he'd been caught, he would be far less comfortable now.

His eyes feel gritty and dry, but he slowly blinks them open. His blurry vision shows him nothing but a high ceiling, bright and unfamiliar. Gingerly, he moves the fingers of his right hand.

_Ghivasha._ Smaug's voice in his mind brings him unabashed relief, and there seems to be a hint of it in the dragon's tone as well.

_Where are we?_ He tries to shift his arm, but Smaug stops him.

_If you move, you will wake him._ Carefully, Thorin turns his head. Bilbo's face seems drawn, and his brow is furrowed even in his slumber. Dark circles are evident beneath his eyes. He is almost plastered to Thorin's side, hands grasping his arm, as if to ensure he wouldn't disappear while Bilbo wasn't watching. _He has not slept much these past days._

Apprehensively, he asks, _How long was I unconscious?_

It takes Smaug a few moments to answer. _Ten days. A little longer, perhaps._

Ten days. It hits Thorin like a blow. _What happened?_

_What do you remember?_

He frowns. _I remember defeating Azog._ And the thought sends a satisfying thrill through him. _I was about to cut off his head, but the orcs dragged him away. I don't-- my memories are distorted, beyond that._ He recalls seeing Dis, but that does not seem right, somehow. _They were taking me somewhere,_ because he remembers the sensation of being carried, but that doesn't explain how he arrived here. He focuses on Smaug.

_How did we get here?_

The dragon remains silent. When Thorin starts to get a little angry, he finally says, _No one was killed when I took you. The details are not important._

Thorin lets out an exasperated huff, then stiffens when the hands on his arm tighten. The frown on Bilbo's forehead has deepened. He cautiously lifts his right arm and, very gently, smooths the frown with his thumb. The hobbit twitches in his sleep and Thorin makes a shushing sound as his fingers lightly caress Bilbo's pale cheek.

Suddenly, brown eyes are staring at him, and Thorin stops moving. "Hello," Bilbo whispers, and it's such an inane, normal thing that Thorin smiles. He makes to withdraw his hand, but Bilbo instantly grabs it and holds it against his face. "How do you feel?"

Thorin considers it. "As if a very large dragon threw me to the floor and danced on me." Bilbo snorts a laugh that quickly turns into a broken sound. Thorin soothingly strokes his thumb over the smooth skin. "I will be fine."

"I, on the other hand, may never recover," Bilbo drolly retorts, but the lingering fear in his eyes belies his jesting manner. He starts to say something but seems to think better of it, closing his eyes and clinging to Thorin's trapped hand instead.

Not that Thorin minds.

"You still look tired," he murmurs. "Do you think you could sleep some more?"

Bilbo answers without opening his eyes. "That depends."

"On what?"

"On whether you plan on trying to get up while I am. Because I have to warn you," and his eyes open into slits, a hint of steel creeping into his voice, "I've discussed it with Smaug, and we've agreed that you're not to leave the lair until we decide you're well enough to be out."

Thorin raises an eyebrow, torn between indignant mortification and amusement. The smug self-satisfaction emanating from Smaug is proof enough that Bilbo is telling the truth. "I suppose you leave me little choice." He releases a put-upon sigh, and Bilbo makes a pleased sound and closes his eyes again. He carefully inches closer until his breath stirs the hair at Thorin's neck.

"If it bothers you--" he begins, apologetic and shy, but Thorin curls his hand around Bilbo's neck. The hobbit sighs softly.

The sound of Bilbo's breathing evens out quickly, and once Thorin begins to feel the strain in his arm he pulls it back with a pang of regret. His other arm looks-- rotten, is the word that comes to mind, and he's afraid to move or touch it.

_According to the wizard, your arm will heal perfectly._

Thorin lets the reassurance set his mind at ease. _So you've made a new friend, have you?_ he teases. _Since when do you deign to speak to other mere mortals?_

Smaug snorts loudly. _Is he a mere mortal?_ And Thorin supposes he has a point. _Our interests were aligned. I found him to be an excellent accomplice._

_That sounds ominous._ A yawn escapes him.

_Go to sleep, ghivasha,_ Smaug tells him affectionately, with the barest trace of a command underneath. But he does feel rather tired, despite his ten-day respite. He turns his head towards Bilbo once more and falls asleep with a soft smile on his face.

* * *

Smaug and Bilbo's agreement is apparently not limited to deciding when he would be allowed to venture beyond his cushioned, comfortable prison.

When he wakes up, Bilbo is already gone. Quickly, he pulls away his blanket and starts to catalogue his ails.

His left arm seems to have borne the brunt of the damage. His fingers nudge carefully at the wound's edges, and he can't repress his sharp hiss. He wriggles his left hand and is relieved to find that he is able to move it normally, but doing anything else with the arm seems to still be beyond him. There is a cut on his abdomen, already mostly healed, and several slashes on his knees and calves that will be all but gone by tomorrow.

He places his right hand flat on the ground and slowly begins to push himself up.

"Don't you dare!" Bilbo storms in, carrying two baskets and breathing fire. Thorin gives up and obediently lies back down. "Can't even leave you alone for a minute," the hobbit mutters crossly as he sets the baskets down. Thorin snorts.

"I was not _leaving_ ," he protests, and Bilbo levels a glare at him. "I merely wanted to sit."

Bilbo crouches next to him and slides his arm around his shoulders. "Then you should've waited for me to come back," he chides softly. He slowly eases Thorin into a seated position, hands lingering on his back. "Do you feel any strain?" he asks anxiously.

There is a little, but Thorin shakes his head regardless and ignores Smaug's knowing look. Bilbo's eyes narrow. "You're lying. Just-- tell me when it becomes too much."

_Traitor._ Thorin glares balefully at Smaug. The dragon ignores him.

"Gandalf should be here soon to check on your wounds. We would have come together, but I had to rush ahead to save you from your stubbornness." Bilbo drags one of the baskets closer and deftly unpacks its contents, and Thorin soon finds a warm mug of soup in his hand. "Drink."

Thorin hides his smile behind the mug as he obediently takes a sip. "I do not see you eating," he comments, staring pointedly at the second mug that Bilbo placed to the side.

Bilbo rolls his eyes. "I'm not the one recuperating," he says, but Thorin just stares at him until he picks up the mug with a long-suffering sigh. He takes several big gulps before setting the soup aside, and it brings a flush to his face. It's the first hint of color Thorin has seen since he awoke, and he takes it as a good omen.

He drinks his soup slowly, careful not to overburden his underfed body with a sudden influx of nourishment. He was pleased to discover that he had lost far less weight and strength than he would have expected, considering the duration he spent unconscious. But wizardry (for that is the only explanation he can think of) is only a mediocre substitute for actual sustenance. He watches as Bilbo spreads out the contents of the second basket and sets to work grinding herbs. He adds water to the mixture, and the smell of hot metal wafts towards Thorin.

_You took him home,_ he suddenly realizes.

_Yes._ Then, _He is worthy._

Thorin glances at Bilbo, who is biting on his lower lip in utter concentration. _Yes._

Smaug hisses, and Bilbo looks up. "Gandalf must be here," he remarks, and for the first time, Thorin understands how it feels to know a conversation is taking place without being privy to it.

Gandalf breezes through the entrance as if Smaug does not exist. "My dear boy, I am very pleased to see you awake." Smaug gives an audible snort, but the wizard's regard seems genuine. Thorin sets aside his half-empty mug and bows from his waist, while ignoring Bilbo's annoyed grumble.

"You saved my life. You have my gratitude."

The old wizard waves off his thanks. "I was in part to blame for what happened. And I would not have been able to save you without young Bilbo's help."

Bilbo flushes and refuses to meet his eyes. "I've prepared the poultice," he says instead, and Gandalf smiles in gratitude.

Their routine seems practiced, and Thorin stays silent and does as they ask. He grimaces when the herbs are rubbed thoroughly into his arm. Bilbo squeezes his shoulder and smiles apologetically. But Gandalf seems pleased when he is done with his inspection.

"Mere traces of the poison remain, and I think they will be gone in two days."

"What of my arm?" Thorin asks.

Gandalf hums thoughtfully. "It should be fully healed within a week. If," and his gaze turns stern, "you do not overburden it before then."

"No chance of that," Bilbo mutters quietly next to him. Gandalf's eyes twinkle.

"Oh, I quite forgot," the wizard suddenly says. "There is another herb I thought we might try. Quite effective when brewed as a tea, I believe. Bilbo, would you mind fetching it? I must have left it on your mother's kitchen table."

Bilbo seems to think nothing of the request, but Thorin is instantly wary. Gandalf waits until Bilbo is out of sight before turning back to him. "Were you successful?"

Thorin purses his lips. "I could not stop the battle, but I believe that the king is currently on his way to Erebor."

"He survived then." Gandalf sighs in relief. "Well, that is something."

But there is very little relief in it for Thorin.

Bilbo returns then, and Gandalf changes the subject to the brewing of tea. Bilbo pays close attention to every step and word, but Thorin's mind wanders back to Moria, the devastation, rage and fear boiling within him. Smaug stirs at the entrance. _Dwelling on things you could not have prevented is pointless._

He knows it to be true, but that does nothing to ease his anguish. He thinks of Frerin, who always followed him around when they were young, emulating everything he did. But he had left him without anyone to guide him, to face the responsibilities that had once been Thorin's on his own. Perhaps Frerin had hated his older brother; after all, if Thorin had gone back with Thror instead of fleeing Esgaroth, Frerin would not have joined the battle. The battle need not have happened at all; Thorin could have convinced his grandfather, stopped him from going down such a mad path.

A hand on his cheek pulls him from his memories. Brown eyes gaze at him worriedly. "Do you need to rest?"

Thorin mutely shakes his head, grateful to find Gandalf gone. The tenderness in Bilbo's eyes almost breaks him. "I am fine," he says, but his voice sounds rough even to his own ears.

"There's nothing you could have done, you know." The words echo Smaug's earlier sentiment so closely that, for a moment, Thorin feels strong resentment.

"There is no need for the two of you to discuss my mental state," he growls.

Hurt flashes in Bilbo's eyes and he sits back on his haunches, hand falling. Thorin misses its comforting warmth. "I hardly need Smaug to tell me what anyone with eyes can see just from looking at you."

Thorin remembers how, as a young prince, he was often praised for his ability to keep his emotions from showing on his face. Even his family commented on it, his father laughing and saying Thorin would be a far better prince than he ever was, if his own family could hardly read him. He looks at Bilbo then, and thinks, _Not anyone._

He reaches out to grasp the hobbit's hand. "I am sorry. I suppose I am not used to--" He hesitates, unsure how to explain, and Bilbo chuckles wryly and tangles their fingers.

"I believe that should be my line," he teases gently, and Thorin drags out a forced smile. "I know I wasn't there," he continues, "that I-- haven't seen the same things you have. And maybe I can't understand what you're going through." He pauses, takes a breath, and there is fresh determination written over his face. "But I _want_ to understand."

And so, Thorin tells him. And when he is done, he almost feels as if the wretchedness within him has been purged, cleansed somehow by Bilbo's acceptance of his failings. They sit quietly sometime until weariness overcomes him and he drops off. When he dreams it is of his father and Frerin, both alive, at peace and happy.

* * *

On the sixth day of his convalescence, Bilbo breezes in with breakfast and a bright grin. "No more liquids," he responds to Thorin's inquiry, and Thorin instantly feels happier as well. "Oh, and if you feel well enough after breakfast, there is something I'd like to show you." He sounds as excited as a young dwarf receiving his first axe, and Thorin bites down on his lip to keep from laughing.

"Why wait till after breakfast?" he asks teasingly. "I am sure I can manage to eat a little later."

Bilbo looks outraged. "I will pretend you did not just suggest postponing breakfast." He places a plate next to Thorin, whose stomach chooses that moment to complain. Bilbo grins impishly. "Besides, what I want to show you is outside, so you will need your strength."

Thorin pauses, spoon halfway to his mouth. "Outside?" he breathes. "I do not have to spend another full day here?"

"You needn't speak as if our scintillating company is so torturous." But there is a laugh behind Bilbo's indignation, and anticipation wells up within him.

He feels stiff when Bilbo helps him to his feet, and the hobbit waits patiently as he gets reacquainted with his legs and how to move them. They make their way slowly to the unobstructed entrance (Smaug had gone hunting as soon as he woke up this morning) and Thorin's hand on Bilbo's shoulder is only partly to steady him.

Bilbo fairly vibrates under his touch as he leads them slowly around the dwelling. When they turn the corner, Thorin notices an average-sized hut, made of similar material to the lair. Bilbo stops at the covered opening and smiles nervously before giving Thorin a little push. He furls the flap back and steps inside.

The hut is well-lit, and the light sparkles off the crystals and metals studiously sorted and placed on several workbenches. In the middle of the hut stands an anvil, an actual one, not a slab of particularly sturdy rock. Behind it, with a funnel leading upwards and outside, stands a forge. Tongs of different shapes and sizes hang from a rack to one side, and the small table next to it holds an assortment of hammers and other metalworking tools.

Stunned, Thorin steps inside, feet taking him towards the anvil. He places his palm upon the flat surface, then notices the piece of mithril laid at its centre.

"I thought you might like to finish that, first." He whirls around to face Bilbo, who is fidgeting anxiously. "I couldn't bring any of your other things, the materials and such, but we can, if you'd like to. I know the ones I could find aren't v-"

The stream of words is cut off when he pulls Bilbo into a tight hug. Bilbo's arms come up and fold around him, and he can feel the hands fisting in his shirt. He breathes in slowly and feels some tense, undefinable part of him settle. He draws back after a moment and Bilbo's fingers slide to his arms, ever careful to avoid his healing injury. Something shifts in those brown eyes, and Bilbo's hands clench. He rises on tiptoes and presses his lips to Thorin's.

At first, he stands frozen. It feels like flying; he is weightless, at peace, intoxicated by the emotions coursing through. He cups Bilbo's face, slides his fingers into his hair, and throws himself wholeheartedly into the new sensations. They break apart briefly for air, Bilbo unsteadily settling back on the soles of his feet, but one taste is not enough, and Thorin dips his head for another. They trade caresses back and forth, unhurried, and when they finally stop, their bodies are melded together. Bilbo breathes unsteadily against his lips. "I--" he whispers, and then suddenly stiffens.

"What?" Thorin murmurs, unsettled by the fleeting expression of alarm that crosses Bilbo's face, before he wipes it away with a stilted smile.

"Nothing, I just--" He looks at Thorin, and presses their mouths together once more before stepping out of his arms. "Stay here, alright? I'll be back in just a minute."

He has left the hut before Thorin can form an objection, and he stares after the hobbit, baffled. His lips are still tingling, his heart still beats rapidly, and he knows Bilbo's was racing just as fast. What, then, could cause such an abrupt change?

Determined to find out, he stalks to the entrance, and pushes back the flaps.


	19. CHAPTER TWELVE

He draws his sword the moment he steps out of the makeshift smithy. Through Smaug's eyes he tracks the intruders, who are slipping steadily around the hill. Before too long, they will see the dwelling, and then it will be too late.

There is a part at the bottom of the hill that is covered in dense shrubbery, and Bilbo makes his way towards it. The bushes hide him well enough, and he waits for them to come closer.

He lets the first one pass by unharmed, but once the second is abreast of him he strikes.

The trespasser raises his hands in surrender as Bilbo's blade presses against his throat. "Careful," he says, and his companion whirls around and lifts his bow. Bilbo tightens his hold on the sword in response.

"I would put that down, if I were you," he says pleasantly.

The archer freezes for a moment before slowly placing his weapon on the ground. "We mean you no harm," he says with a smile, and Bilbo rolls his eyes.

"Yes, I'm sure you don't mean _me_ any harm." He nods towards the belt. "Those knives, too. Don't think I didn't see those." The archer obliges, and if Bilbo has surprised him he doesn't show it.

"I am sorry we were skulking around," the captured dwarf says then, "but he is right. We did not come here to cause any trouble."

"Really." Bilbo voice fairly drips with disbelief. "Just passing through, were you? It's only that you're a bit far from home for me to believe that."

"We came to find someone," the archer interjects, and Bilbo bares his teeth in a fearsome smile. "We believe he may have sought shelter here."

"There are no strangers in Hobbiton," Bilbo says, still smiling, "except for the two of you, who are trespassing on private property. That may be normal where you come from, but around here, that's considered a severe offense."

The archer sputters. "We were not!" he yelps indignantly, ignoring his partner's, "Kili, be quiet!" He sounds so young, so earnest when he pleads, "We were sent to save him, you must believe us! Please, just tell us where he is."

Smaug lands with a loud crash, and the archer stumbles forward. Wide-eyed, he turns around, a small dagger that Bilbo had apparently missed clutched in his hand. Smaug's eyes glitter dangerously, and Bilbo knows that look. He looks around for shelter, praying that Smaug won't accidentally scorch him as well.

"Stop!"

Thorin rounds the corner that hides the lair from view, and three pairs of eyes swivel towards him. Smaug's gaze remains intent on the two strange dwarves. Thorin glares at him, and Smaug does turn his head to look down on his companion then, the rage gone from his expression. Another moment passes before Smaug turns around and walks away, headed in the direction Thorin had come from.

Bilbo keeps the sword in place as Thorin walks towards him. "It's alright," he says, but Bilbo frowns.

"How can you be sure? They said they were sent here, and I doubt very much that it's because the king wants to give his thanks for you rescuing him."

Thorin's hand slides over his then, and with another grumble he lets it fall. The freed dwarf quickly scrambles out of his grasp to stand next to his companion. They both stare at Thorin in awe.

It is the archer who breaks the silence first. "We are glad to find you well." His smile is shy, and genuine, and carries a hint of something that sets Bilbo's teeth on edge.

"How did you find me?" Thorin asks, hand still comfortingly holding Bilbo's.

The dwarf with the golden hair speaks up. "We heard rumors. No one mentioned you outright, but both of us felt that we were on the right track." He spreads his empty hands, and Bilbo notices the sun reflecting off several weapons stashed about his person. "All we want is to talk to you." The archer nods eagerly. "Please, Un-- Thorin."

A soft quiver goes through Thorin then -- he seems overwhelmed, suddenly, and Bilbo steps closer and places his free hand on the dwarf's upper arm. The dwarf looks down at him. "What is it?" Bilbo whispers.

Thorin lets out a shaky breath, and Bilbo's worry reaches new heights. He wants to insist that Thorin forget this nonsense and rest, let him and Smaug deal with these two, because no matter how accommodating they seem now, Bilbo doesn't trust them one bit. But even though Thorin seems hesitant about something, Bilbo knows him well enough to be certain that his logical arguments will make no difference in what happens next.

He sighs in defeat. "Let's take this inside, at least," he mutters, and Thorin squeezes his hand. He turns back to the other dwarves. "You'll leave your weapons at the door; I won't have you scaring my mother." They readily agree, and Bilbo sheathes his sword once Thorin has released his hold. But he grabs Thorin's hand again as they walk towards Bag End, just because he can.

The dwarven spies leave their weapons by the door (all of them, this time; Bilbo makes sure of it) and enter the kitchen looking for all the world like two well-behaved guests. They make polite chitchat with his mother as she sets out biscuits and scones, and make her giggle more than once. She seems utterly charmed, but Bilbo still isn't fooled.

"I'll leave you lads alone," Belladonna says with a smile, and everyone smiles back until she has left the kitchen. Then, Bilbo's glare comes out full force.

"Maybe you should start by introducing yourselves."

The dwarves exchange a glance. "I am Fili," the owner of the small arsenal says. "And this is Kili," he gestures at the archer, who beams at them.

Bilbo remains unimpressed. "And who are you, when you're at home?" Fili and Kili seem confused by his question.

But it is Thorin who finally answers. "They are my nephews," he says, and shocks everyone into silence.

"We were not sure if you knew." Fili smiles tentatively, and it transforms his face so drastically that it suddenly strikes Bilbo how young they must be.

"I thought I had imagined it." His eyes roam over the two dwarves. "You both resemble your mother," he says, hushed. They look inordinately pleased. "Is she-- well?"

"She is." Kili smiles. "She often speaks of you. We grew up hearing all about our great uncle, who saved Erebor and then went on to save everyone else."

Thorin seems embarrassed, and Bilbo has to bite his lip to keep from grinning. "It was nothing so grand as that." But nobody around the table pays his words any heed.

Awkward silence fills the room. Bilbo glances at the two brothers, and at Thorin, and realizes how out of place he is. "I'll leave you to catch up," he mumbles, rising, but Thorin's hand shoots up to grab his arm.

"Stay," he says. There is a small smile on his lips, and longing in his eyes. Bilbo sits back down.

Fili clears his throat. "We were sent here to retrieve you from the dragon, and take you back to Erebor." He awkwardly runs a hand over his beard. "Well, in truth, we volunteered."

"We did not feel as if the king was being entirely honest about the situation." Kili leans forward in his seat. "You seem-- content, for one taken against his will and bewitched to obey."

Thorin sighs and tiredly rubs a hand over his eyes. Bilbo eyes him worriedly. "Is that what he is saying? That Smaug is forcing me to stay with him?"

They nod in unison. "That is the official version of events that he insists on," Fili elaborates, "and no one dares contradict him. But many have doubts. And after what happened at Khazad-dûm--" he shrugs, "well, we thought it best if we approached you and found out the truth of the matter."

Kili grins impishly. "Of course, we did not tell the king what our plan was."

"After what happened?" Thorin asks the question carefully, but Bilbo can see the tension rising to the surface.

Kili's eyes shine with excitement. "It was incredible, the way the dragon wreaked havoc." Thorin's face grows paler with every word. "The king had archers ready, in case the dragon tried to-- well, turn us into roasted meat." Fili rolls his eyes and jabs his brother, who merely grins. "But he didn't even try."

"We are not sure what he did," Fili interrupts with a sharp look at Kili, "but the dwarves carrying you suddenly began to fight amongst themselves. Some took up arms. It was-- quite strange."

"Was anyone hurt?" Thorin asks hoarsely, and Kili quickly shakes his head.

"A few cuts and bruises, perhaps. They have suffered worse." Fili nods in agreement. "And it did not last long. They were in such disarray that no one offered resistance when the dragon plunged down and carried you away. And once you were gone, the spell seemed to lift. Of course, the king claimed it was but another sign that you are held against your will."

Bilbo only knows of Thror from his books and the little Thorin told him about the king. But it had been obvious to him from the start that Thorin loves and respects his grandfather very much. And perhaps Thror loves him as well -- he does seem rather intent on protecting Thorin from what he perceives as a danger, after all. But some part of Bilbo can't help but wonder, and compare. He does not think his father and mother would have a similar reaction if he decided to suddenly leave Hobbiton. They would worry about him, of course, but if the decision were his, and he was happy, he feels certain they would let him go.

Surely, even Thror can see that his grandson is at peace with his life and his choices, whatever they may have been. So then, why?

"It's Smaug," he realizes, then claps a hand over his mouth when it becomes apparent that he spoke out loud. Thorin looks pained, but Fili gives a cautious nod.

"That is our suspicion as well. Perhaps he thinks that Th-- that Uncle," and a smile creeps into his eyes, "has learned to control the dragon."

Thorin snorts loudly. "Smaug cannot be controlled. Not even by me."

"Of course not." Fili inclines his head slightly. "I am merely telling you what we suspect."

"And now that you've told us?" Bilbo asks evenly, letting his gaze sweep over the brothers. "What do you intend to do, exactly?"

Fili and Kili share another indecipherable look. "We thought we might stay a few days," Kili finally says. "We have not had a chance to rest since the battle, and it will give us a chance to draw our own conclusions."

That they are exhausted is clear, but Bilbo feels uneasy. He eyes them suspiciously. "And once you have drawn your conclusions?"

Fili steadily meets his gaze. "Then we will either rescue one of our kin, or return to Erebor and claim we never found our uncle."

"You need not lie for my sake," Thorin mutters.

Fili smiles with sympathy. "If we tell him the truth, the peace you have found here will be shattered." Thorin goes rigid at his side, and Bilbo's blood grows cold. "We would prefer to spare you such a fate."

Thorin's nod is grateful, tired, defeated. Bilbo's heart aches for him. He wants nothing more than to turn back time, erase that sad look from Thorin's eyes, and recapture that brief, blissful moment they had shared.

Barring that, maybe he can find some other way of turning the situation to his advantage.

He pastes a bright smile on his face. "You're welcome to stay here," he tells them, and the dwarves stammer out their protests. "Please, I insist. We had a guest a few days ago, but he has departed already, so we have two empty rooms again." He glances at Thorin, and his smile turns genuine. "We'd enjoy your company."

"We are grateful for your hospitality, Master Baggins." Fili pushes back his chair and stands, and his brother quickly follows. "Would you mind if we retire early?"

Bilbo shakes his head. "I'll show you to your rooms."

Thorin follows him as he sees Fili and Kili settled in the guest rooms, and once Kili's door is closed Bilbo turns to him. "This isn't quite how I envisioned today." He receives a wan smile. "You look exhausted. Would you like to stay here, tonight?"

That elicits a spark of amusement in those blue eyes. "And what would your parents say?"

Bilbo flushes. "That's a bit presumptuous, isn't it?"

Thorin chuckles softly. "I believe you are the one who made the offer," he replies archly, and Bilbo grins.

"I never said we would share the bed."

It earns him a full-throated laugh. "I believe I can make it back to the lair." Thorin's hand gently touches his cheek. "I am much better, truly. You can stop your ceaseless worrying."

Bilbo turns his head and places a whisper-soft kiss on the inside of Thorin's wrist. He can feel the beats of a strong heart beneath his lips, and feels fiercely grateful.

* * *

He has always been an early riser, and so the presence of two dwarves in his kitchen comes as a surprise, albeit not entirely unwelcome. "Good morning," he greets them cheerfully, and they mumble their replies in between bites of breakfast. Belladonna has left his and Thorin's breakfast out, and Bilbo reminds himself to buy her something truly spectacular for all the trouble he has put her through these past weeks. He leaves Thorin's plate but grabs his own and takes a seat opposite the brothers.

"How are you finding the world outside of Erebor?" he begins with a bright smile, and the pair chatters animatedly about how different everything is beyond the confines of their home. He quickly gathers that they have spent most of their youths in training, and have had very little time to enjoy themselves and go on adventures. They are sons of Durin, they say when he comments on it, with duties and responsibilities befitting the royal line.

It almost makes Bilbo want to start a food fight, just to see how they'd react, until he remembers he's always hated food fights, and that his mother would undoubtedly be very, very angry.

"I suppose our life here must be just as curious to you as Erebor is to me," he says instead, sipping his tea.

Kili snickers into his mug of ale, and Bilbo raises an eyebrow. "One of the first things we noticed is that you have a lot more females among you."

Bilbo hides his triumphant smile behind his cup. "I did read that female dwarves are rather rare," he comments sedately. "It did make me wonder if that would affect relationships, and the like." His smile is innocent and ignorant. "Do dwarves share their females, then?"

The brothers look shocked. Bilbo bites back a grin. "Oh no, Master Baggins!" Kili sounds scandalized. "Unions among our people are rare, and last a lifetime. No dwarf would think of sharing their mate with another."

He lets polite interest show on his face. "How does it work, then? How do you decide who gets to marry and who doesn't?"

Fili fidgets a little in his seat. "It is not a matter of deciding, precisely," he says awkwardly. Bilbo waits. "When one dwarf chooses another for his or her mate, they must begin the courtship rituals."

"Rituals? I must say, that sounds very exciting. We don't really have any such customs here."

Kili is the one who elaborates, and Bilbo does a little mental jig. "I suppose it is not exciting, really. They merely exchange gifts, and if the suitor's final gift is accepted by his or her intended, they are considered betrothed."

"No formal ceremony?" Kili shakes his head. "How would the-- intended know it is the final gift, then?"

There is a certain shrewdness in Fili's eyes when he looks at him. "The suitor must say the traditional words when the last gift is delivered."

"Words?"

"Mukhuh kurûdmâ ra umùrâdmâ mahkurush."

The guttural sounds wash over him, and he represses a shiver. "What does it mean?"

Fili smiles knowingly. "It means, 'May our hearts and souls form a bond'."

* * *

When he steps outside, the sun's feeble warmth caresses his skin. There are birds chirping somewhere nearby, and a grin spreads over Bilbo's face. He hasn't felt the sun since the long winter started, and the thought that spring might finally be on its way adds a little bounce to his step. He whistles cheerfully as he makes his way towards the lair.

_A little less optimism would be prudent._

Bilbo stops whistling. _Why? The winter is ending, the sun is shining, Thorin is nearly well and we have not been attacked for nearly a week. I think this is an excellent time to be cheerful._

_Where you see reasons to be hopeful, I see dangers lurking where we cannot sense them._

He pauses at the entrance. _What do you mean?_

_Think carefully. Why have the orcs suddenly stopped their attacks?_

_Perhaps they realized they couldn't win._ But even as he thinks it, doubt begins to grow within Bilbo. Orcs are hardly rational creatures, after all, and surrender does not seem to be a concept they understand. _You think they're plotting something?_

Smaug's dark thoughts touch Bilbo's mind. _I do not know. But I fear the worst._


	20. CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Another troubled night passes.

He knows Bilbo's intentions are good, and he can honestly say that he would not have been capable of much that first week. But Thorin feels much better now, stronger, no doubt the result of steady meals. And he has started to feel restless. The lack of physical activity does not agree with him; it leaves him too much time to think, and his thoughts are not always pleasant.

It is easy to forget during the day. He has spent quite some time connecting with his sister-sons since they arrived three days ago. It was difficult, at first -- their lives are so different and so far removed from each other, that it gives them little common ground to speak of. But Bilbo had eased them through the first handful of awkward conversations, with humorous anecdotes and the rampant curiosity that is such an integral part of him. It became easy, somehow, to talk about Dis and Frerin, his father, their education and interests, his own adventures with Smaug. And all too soon, he grows fond of them.

Fili reminds him of himself -- serious and responsible, too aware of his obligations towards the kingdom. But there is a lightness of spirit within him as well, appreciation for pranks and a willingness to join in mischief, even if he doesn't initiate it. No doubt the influence of his brother, for when Thorin looks at Kili he sees Dis. He is all laughs and good humor, and his brown eyes always twinkle with secrets and brewing playfulness. Dis was always like that, as well. Thorin often thought that she was the reason he hadn't turned into another version of his grandfather. Whenever she felt that he was becoming too serious, she would orchestrate something ridiculous to make him laugh, and remind him that there was more to life than duty towards one's king.

And then there is Bilbo, further distracting him with his gentle care and tender hands and soft lips. Even days after the fact, he still finds himself awed whenever they touch. He craves those private moments with a burning longing that does not dissipate, no matter how much time they spend together. It makes him feel guilty sometimes, the greed with which he absorbs Bilbo's affection, but he is helpless to stop it.

But Bilbo is also part of the reason he spends half his nights tossing and turning on his comfortable bedding.

He learned, long ago, to trust his instincts, and to put equal faith in Smaug's. His companion has been flying off more and more often, scouting for a danger he is sure is lurking somewhere. But while he often catches the scent of orc, he never sees them, and no attacks are forthcoming.

_This village is too exposed,_ he said the previous night. _You have trained them well, but will they hold against an army?_

And Thorin knows they can't, not even if he had years to train them. He and Smaug are the only real protection that Hobbiton has. And yet, Thorin feels that his presence is becoming more troublesome than beneficial. For if his sister-sons could track him here, couldn't his grandfather send more dwarves? An army that will not rest until he is within their grasp, and won't care about the lives of hobbits.

An arm slips around him from behind, stirring him from his thoughts. He tilts his head back and smiles softly as Bilbo's hands card through his hair. The feeling soothes him and he lets out a small sigh and allows his eyes to slide shut.

"I love your hair," Bilbo confesses quietly. His hands trace a path only he can see, over Thorin's ear, down to his neck, and Thorin shivers. Bilbo leans down and presses his nose against Thorin's neck. He inhales audibly and Thorin laughs, startled. He reaches out then and places his hand at Bilbo's nape, tugging him forward. Bilbo is grinning, and Thorin kisses the grin away.

Bilbo is almost seated in his lap when they finally break apart, and a blush has added color to his cheeks. He sits down next to Thorin, leaning companionably against his side, and Thorin takes the opportunity and wraps his arm around Bilbo's shoulders. He looks down at the curly head, and thinks, _Mine._

"Is Smaug hunting again?"

Thorin sighs heavily. "He is scouting," he replies, and Bilbo turns a little in his embrace, eyebrows raised.

"Are there orcs or wolves nearby?" There is alertness in those eyes now, where previously there had only been fear of any impending attack. Thorin feels a swell of pride.

"Orcs," he affirms. "But they are surprisingly quiet."

Bilbo chuckles. "And that's a bad thing?"

He wants to joke with Bilbo, but Smaug's apprehension has become his own, and so he stays quiet.

"There's something you're not saying." Bilbo peers at him, and Thorin can't find it in him to deny it. He sighs again.

"I fear our presence here is putting your village in needless danger."

Bilbo's expression turns pensive. "Your presence is what's kept us safe."

Thorin acknowledges the truth of it with a nod. "Smaug says the number of orcs is rising. He fears they are congregating and will attack the village, overwhelm it. It is possible that they consider the protection of a dragon as a challenge."

It is Bilbo's turn to sigh. "The way I see it," he says, folding his hands in his lap, "is that if you hadn't come here, the village would've been destroyed months ago. Whatever may happen," his gaze becomes piercing, knowing, "you are not to blame. You've done much for all of us, and we're all grateful."

"And what if orcs and wolves are not the only things to fear, now?" Thorin whispers tiredly. Bilbo looks confused. "My grandfather is capable of sending a small army after me. If Fili and Kili were able to track me, then it is entirely possible others could as well."

Bilbo's gaze turns fierce. "We won't simply let them take you."

"That is what worries me."

They stare at each other in brooding silence for a moment. "There is little point in predicting the worst," Bilbo finally says. "Let's wait and see what your nephews decide to do, first. Perhaps they will be able to convince your grandfather that you and Smaug left no trace behind."

It is a possibility, but Thorin feels little hope for its success. Bilbo might find it acceptable to simply wait for something to happen, but Thorin will not be responsible for more deaths.

A loud shriek sounds in the distance. Thorin clambers to his feet, Bilbo following him. They share a fearful look before hastening outside.

Smaug is a streaking blur in the sky above them. _It has started,_ he says, and Thorin feels his blood run cold. Bilbo seems to have grasped the situation as well, and takes off at a run. A few moments later, the bell that signals an attack sounds, and when Bilbo returns, his sword is unsheathed.

Thorin automatically tries to draw his own sword, before remembering he left it inside the lair. "I'll get it," Bilbo grimly says.

_How many?_ Thorin asks, and Smaug shows him. He watches through Smaug's eyes, horrified, as the sea of orcs moves all too quickly towards the village. A sword is thrust into his hands and he blinks. He pulls Orcrist out, tossing the scabbard aside. Bilbo holds out Oakenshield then, and Thorin lets him strap it to his other arm.

_Your warriors have gathered._

Bilbo reaches out and squeezes his hand. There is determination in his eyes, as well as fear and fury, and Thorin draws courage from it. Together, they head towards the fields.

The hobbits seem better equipped than the last time he saw them, and their number seems to have increased as well. He sees Fili and Kili standing nearby, weapons drawn and ready. They all watch him quietly as he strides along the front line, and he can no longer see the peaceful, complacent people they used to be.

They may not be an army, but they are warriors nonetheless.

"The enemy outnumbers us," he begins. "But they are foolish creatures, driven by hate alone. You have something to protect, things you treasure. Fight for these things." He points at the spear wielders. "You will form a defensive line. Behind you will be the archers." He turns towards them. "We rely on you to stem the first wave, and to contain the ones after. Aim for the wargs, use them. They are heavy, and the rest of us can easily dispatch the trapped orcs."

They nod, and instantly begin to get into the formations he had taught them. "Where are the swordsmen?" Some of them raise their hands. "You will stay with me. Our task is to scatter them the best we can, to grant reprieve to the defensive group. Stay together. Protect each other." They nod and start to move towards him. Bilbo silently joins them, as do his nephews.

And then there is no more time to plan.

The orcs rush at them but they are spread out, unorganized. Thorin moves in before they can come near the defense, thrusting Orcrist into the belly of a warg and hearing its dying scream. They fall quickly, and a quiet cheer goes up among the hobbits. "Do not celebrate yet!" he snaps. "This was merely a scouting group. More will come."

And come, they do.

Without Smaug there, Thorin thinks they would have been killed within the first half hour. Two hobbits die during the second attack, and Thorin does his best to rally the rest. Once, when a warg is about to latch onto his sword arm, it is Fili who drives one of his twin blades into the warg's eyes. They share a fleeting smile, and Fili is off again, yelling at Kili to shoot faster. He also hears Bilbo's voice occasionally, directing some of the others. It reassures him, and he throws himself into the fighting, letting his own battle cries be heard.

But then a horn blows, a sound Thorin recognizes from his nightmares. He pushes the dead orc off of him and scans the horizon, chest heaving.

It is Smaug who sees it first. _Azog._ There is rage in the way he thinks the name, and Thorin echoes it. Azog, who had slain so many of his kin, responsible for so many horrors. And now he has found his way to a place Thorin has started to think of as home.

He snarls, and it sounds like a rabid animal. _This time, I will kill him._

He begins to push forward, dispatching as many orcs as he can. Smaug helps to clear a path for him and flies ahead. _I will isolate him for you. The kill is yours, ghivasha._ He turns and slices neatly through the leg of a warg. He sees his nephews then, a short distance behind him, but they, too, seem to be pushing forward, the sound of that horn perhaps even more familiar to them. But this is _his_ fight, _his_ kill, and he presses on without waiting for Smaug.

Another shriek, but this time there is pain in it, and Thorin's heart stops. _What is it?_ he asks frantically, trying to find Smaug, but the smoke is thick around him.

_Catapults,_ Smaug tells him, and Thorin can feel the agony emanating from his friend's left wing. _I cannot fly any closer._

_Help the others! They will not last._ Smaug flies overhead, and he hears the orcs behind him shriek as the dragon sets to work.

If this were any other battle, he would have retreated to wait for an opportunity. But his craving for blood overwhelms his reason, and with a roar, he rushes onward.

_Stop this!_ Smaug growls at him. _What good will it do to get yourself killed?!_

But for once, Thorin ignores him.

He fights his way to a clear space and stops. Azog stands in front of him, riding a pale, white warg, and ringed by a handful of orc riders. A smirk appears on that loathsome face. "Welcome, Scorching Sun," he hisses, and the wargs around him begin to howl. "I have come to collect the price of what you took from me." He lifts his left hand; a hooked iron shaft has been stuck into the stump Thorin left behind.

Thorin raises Orcrist and points it at Azog. "The claw suits you, filth."

Azog's smirk widens. "So brave, so strong. Let us see how long you will last until you begin to squeal."

An arrow flies past Thorin's ear. It misses Azog, but a member of his squadron falls backwards, the arrow protruding from his skull. "Stay back!" he snarls at Kili, but the fool does not listen. Fili appears at his other side, and Thorin's fear begins to grow. "You cannot do this," he tries to plead with them. Azog laughs.

"Kill the small ones," he tells his orcs, and they prowl towards them with gleeful cackling. "Leave the Sun to me."

The pack splits up, and the wargs jump out from either side of Azog. Fili fends the first one off with a loud yell, and Kili's arrows take care of another two. But the rest have arrived then, and Thorin finds himself standing alone, split from his nephews during the onslaught. He glances around frantically before making his way towards Kili, who seems to be dealing with twice as many as his brother. But before he can even lift his sword, Azog moves.

The white warg is fast. Thorin throws himself to the side as the warg rushes him, and rolls to his feet with his sword ready. Instead of waiting, he roars and sprints to meet the leader of the orcs halfway.

The impact sends him flying. He lands on his back and staggers painfully to his feet. But Azog is faster, and the mace connects with his midriff.

He can hear shouting beyond his own labored breathing. He tries to sit up, ignoring the stabs of pain the movement causes. Kili has somehow made his way towards him, and when he has dispatched the last warg on his tail, he aims for Azog.

"Kili, no!"

The sound his young nephew makes as he lands is sickening. Thorin waits for him to get up, to move, to twitch. But Kili lies silent, not even responding to his brother's frantic yelling, and Thorin thinks, _This is my doing._

The new wave of loathing gives him the strength he lacks. He finds his feet as his eyes find Azog's, who is smiling in satisfaction. He doesn't stop to think -- with Kili's lifeless form before his eyes, he begins to run.

He is ready for the warg this time, and slides as the animal is about to leap at him. Orcrist finds the warg's belly and Thorin thrusts his blade in, then quickly pulls it out and rolls away before it collapses.

Azog's howl is loud and terrifying, and Thorin bares his teeth in a snarl as the pale orc jumps off his dying mount. The mace makes lazy circles as Azog stalks toward him.

He fends off the first blow with Oakenshield and pushes, moving in with Orcrist. But the blade's path is obstructed when Azog's claw grabs ahold of it. Thorin tries to pull back, but his blade is too tangled with the iron, and with a laugh, Azog pulls Orcrist out of his grasp. The blade falls to the ground a short distance away. Thorin dives for it, but Azog brings his iron hook into play again. The iron bites into his arm and he cries out as his flesh is pierced. It gives Azog the moment he needs to swing his mace again, and this time, Oakenshield cannot deflect it fully.

The orc stands over him as he fights for each new breath. He smirks as the mace is hefted over his head. "Time for the Sun to disappear."

Someone barrels into Azog with a yell, and suddenly the pale orc is no longer in his field of vision. Thorin turns his head. Someone is struggling with Azog as the orc curses and howls, neither of them quite getting enough leverage to use their weapons. But it isn't until he glimpses light brown curls as they roll around, that he realizes.

His struggles to reach his sword intensify, but his body remains stiff and uncooperative. He watches in terror as Azog's hook claws at Bilbo's shoulder, grazing his face, but Bilbo manages to stay on top of the orc. He raises his hands a little, the blade pointed upwards, and brings the butt down hard into Azog's abdomen. The moment the orc grunts in pain, the blade has turned around, and with a fierce cry, Bilbo embeds the blade deep into his chest, leaning on the hilt until Azog lies still.

There is an instant change. Orcs begin to flee from their assailants in all directions, most of them streaming past Thorin without even seeming to notice him. Others do notice, however, the smart few perhaps, and they make their way to where Thorin is lying on the ground. But Smaug seems to have seen them too, and when his shriek echoes in the air, the orcs appear to think better of it and join their defeated brethren, giving a wide berth to the killers of their leader and his corpse. Smaug disappears from his field of vision then, but after a moment he can hear the sound of several explosions. The catapults, no doubt.

Bilbo scrambles off the corpse and crashes to his knees next to Thorin, panting harshly. "Oh, please," he mutters, voice scared and desperate. With a groan, Thorin's fingers latch onto Bilbo's mithril armor, and he pulls. Bilbo lands on top of him with a soft yelp, and it hurts, but he keeps hold of the hobbit.

"Why did you do such a foolish thing?" he growls, torn between the desire to shake Bilbo and kiss him. But Bilbo apparently has no such qualms, because he silences Thorin with a harsh kiss.

"Maybe if you hadn't gone after him yourself, you daft, stubborn idiot, I wouldn't have had to!" And Thorin can see that Bilbo is genuinely angry. The hobbit's hands aren't gentle as they frame his face. "If you'd died," he grinds out, "I would have never forgiven myself."

Bilbo's hands are starting to shake, and Thorin lets go of the armor and raises a palm to his cheek instead. Bilbo bites his lip, and the rage in his eyes slowly fades to reveal the fear hiding beneath. "You're not alone anymore," he whispers, and Thorin nods, emotion choking him. Bilbo rolls off him then and helps him into a seated position, and he leans against him gratefully.

"Kili," Thorin murmurs anxiously, "where is he?" Bilbo's expression is grim when he points to the right, where Fili's crouching silhouette is clearly visible. "Help me up," Thorin pleads, and Bilbo wordlessly supports him as they stagger towards his sister-sons.

Kili looks like a scene from his nightmares, and his legs give out. He slides to the ground, hand shaking as he touches his nephew's chest. Beside him, Fili looks drawn and defeated. "He has not moved," he whispers hoarsely, hands absently brushing over Kili's hair.

Guilt threatens to drown him. _I did this._ He sees Dis in his mind's eye, not only grieving for a father and brother, but now a son as well. He chokes back the howl that wants to crawl its way out of his throat.

Bilbo's relieved sigh is such an incongruous sound that his eyes snap upwards. The hobbit is smiling tremulously, his fingers touching Kili's neck.

"He's alive."


	21. CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Despite the number of deaths (thirty-eight; a large number by hobbit standards), Hobbiton regains its equilibrium fairly quickly. Everyone grieves; everyone has lost someone. If it isn't a family member, it's a friend, and it unites them in a way few things ever have. Neighbors help their neighbors rebuild broken homes, and the funerals of the first few days were often large affairs.

But the staggering losses notwithstanding, there is hope amongst the villagers as the long winter slowly but steadily begins to fade.

Bilbo spends those first few days in a haze of pain and sorrow. His wounds bother him more than he lets on, but they are insignificant next to Thorin's. There were several moments of true worry over the dwarf, but Bilbo was stubborn and Thorin even more so, and between their determination and some of the kingsfoil they still have, Thorin quickly healed.

Kili is another matter. His wounds are extensive and deep, and Thorin grimly stitches the edges together after cleaning them. Still, it takes Kili half a day to waken, but he seems his usual, cheerful self, and once Fili sees his brother awake, he finally consents to let them look at his own multitude of injuries.

After a week, all four of them are back to something resembling normal. Fili and Kili linger a few more days, during which Bilbo tries to make himself scarce. He sees how heavily the prospect of parting from their newfound uncle weighs on them, and on Thorin as well. Even without any practice, Thorin quickly adapted and became quite the worrier. It makes Bilbo smile sometimes, but only when he knows the dwarf isn't looking.

Fili comes to find him on the day of their departure, and stuns Bilbo a little when he bows. "I wanted to thank you for all that you have done for us," he says, smiling.

"It was my pleasure." And it had been. "Will you return immediately to Erebor?"

The young dwarf nods. "The king will be expecting a report." And Bilbo doesn't even have to ask what that report will say. He smiles, but Fili's expression remains serious. "You will take care of him." It's not quite a question, but Bilbo answers it anyway.

"You have my word," he solemnly says, and Fili gives a shy smile.

"And perhaps, you could both send letters?"

"I will make sure to remind him."

"Then I wish you well, Bilbo Baggins. May we meet again with the grace of Mahal."

Bilbo grins. "Mahzirikhi zu gang ghukhil."

Fili laughs approvingly as he leaves.

* * *

He finds Thorin in his smithy, hammering angrily on a piece of metal. His back is towards Bilbo, and so he takes a moment to admire the broad shoulders and the strength in those arms, the same arms that can still hold him so tenderly. He smiles, and steps forward.

"I've decided what to name my sword," he says, and Thorin puts the hammer down. Bilbo slides his hand around Thorin's neck, fingers tangling in the sweaty hair, and tugs him down for a gentle kiss.

Thorin's expression has softened once Bilbo finally lets him up, but there's still something brewing behind those blue eyes. "It has earned a name," the dwarf agrees. "What have you chosen?"

"Sting." Bilbo draws the blade and places it on the anvil. They both stare at it.

"It suits."

Bilbo slides his hand over Thorin's. "I have a favor to ask, actually." Thorin raises his eyebrows. "Would you engrave the blade?"

Thorin's smile is warm and pleased, and Bilbo smiles helplessly back. He steps aside as Thorin puts away whatever he was working on, and picks up an engraver. "I cannot write it in Sindarin," he says, apologetic, but Bilbo just shakes his head.

"I'd like it done in Khuzdul, actually." Thorin seems surprised. "It feels-- appropriate."

He watches as Thorin painstakingly begins to bend the metal to his will. He scratches each rune carefully, lovingly into the blade, and Bilbo stares at his hands, wondering how they can be capable of such beauty even with all the battle calluses he can see. When he is done, Thorin wipes the blade off with a clean cloth before placing it before Bilbo.

Bilbo runs his finger over the long line of runes, longer surely than needed for one simple word. "It's beautiful," he marvels. "What does it say?"

Thorin smiles, and traces the runes alongside him. "Sting is my name. I am the Defiler's bane."

He picks Sting up and slides it slowly into its scabbard. He turns to Thorin, beaming, only to be dragged into a rough hug. Thorin's arms hold him close and tight, and Bilbo returns the embrace just as fiercely. Something is wrong -- he can feel it. Something beyond the departure of his nephews, something he doesn't seem willing to share. It's like an itch he can't scratch, and he frets over it long after Thorin has let him go with a little smile that seems troubled to Bilbo. He continues brooding about it while Thorin turns back to the piece of metal he had been hammering so intently when Bilbo first walked in.

When Thorin's profile doesn't yield any answers, he decides it might be easier to simply ask, "What's bothering you?"

The way Thorin stiffens is a revelation in and of itself. "It's nothing," the stoic dwarf says, resuming his work as if nothing happened. But Bilbo saw the tiny slip, and his worrying intensifies.

The answer occurs to him as he is heading back to Bag End, and almost he turns back to shake some sense into the stubborn dwarf. But he keeps walking, mind spinning as he ponders the problem. Talking will not solve anything, he feels -- Thorin has obviously made up his mind and decided he is right, and Bilbo suspects there is nothing even he could say to deter him. He should have suspected, he thinks disparagingly, should have known the attack of the orcs would only serve to prove to Thorin that he was right in thinking his presence posed a threat to Bilbo's home.

He sighs heavily as he closes his bedroom door and settles behind his desk. He has some planning to do.

* * *

The arrangements take him two days. He waits until nightfall to slip quietly into the lair. Smaug isn't there -- off hunting, no doubt, and perhaps that is for the best. There is a soft light coming from the platform, and Bilbo slowly climbs the steps, hands clenching around the scroll in his hands.

Thorin is lying down on his pallet, but quickly sits up when he notices Bilbo. "It is late," he murmurs inanely, and Bilbo stifles a nervous chuckle. He walks towards the dwarf, sits next to him, and stares at his feet.

"I know what you've been plotting," he begins without preamble. "And I know you believe it to be the right thing, the honorable thing to do."

A thumb and forefinger slide across Bilbo's cheek, dropping to below his chin and raising his face so he can meet Thorin's saddened eyes. "You understand why I must."

"I understand why _you_ think you must. That does not mean I agree with your decision." He draws Thorin's hand down from his face. "You wreaked havoc on my complacent life, you know." He smiles a little, but something in Thorin's eyes shutters. "You showed me things beyond the borders of the world I knew. Taught me how to fight." _And how to love._

"I am sorry," Thorin murmurs as he lowers his gaze. Bilbo shakes his head.

"I'm not."

Blue eyes come up to meet his. Bilbo turns the hand he's holding and places the scroll in it. "What is this?" Thorin asks, confusion evident in his voice.

"It's a contract."

"A contract," Thorin repeats.

Bilbo rolls his eyes impatiently. "Read it."

He forces himself not to fidget as Thorin unrolls the parchment and reads the contract that he has so carefully drawn up. Thorin's eyes grow wider and more disbelieving with every line, and surprise is written all over his face when he finally reaches the end. "Bilbo..." he murmurs, but Bilbo is ready for him.

He frames Thorin's face with his hands. His heart beats wildly in his chest, so loud that even Thorin must hear it. But Thorin just watches him, bewildered and overwhelmed. "Mukhuh kurûdmâ ra umùrâdmâ mahkurush." A flush starts at his ears when he hears how he mangled the pronunciation. But one look at Thorin tells him the dwarf received his message regardless.

"You-- do you know what you--" He stills the spilling words with the pad of a finger.

"You have not given me an answer," he says softly, inclining his head towards the contract. "Will you sign it? Let Bag End be your home as well as mine?"

"I cannot," Thorin says wretchedly, and something inside Bilbo's chest cracks. "It is your home, your _parents'_ home, what will they think?"

Sharp relief makes Bilbo laugh. "They know. They consider you family, you've become important to them." He pauses. "Important to me." The anguish in Thorin's eyes grows stronger, and Bilbo sits up straighter so he can bring their foreheads together. "You have made your decision, and I can't stop you," he whispers in the small space between them. "Signing this does not mean you must stay. All it means is that you have a home here, whenever you want it." He leans forward, brushes his lips gently over Thorin's. "It means that if your cave becomes very cold during the winter, or there is a need to hide elsewhere for a while, we have a place to go to."

A shiver goes through Thorin then. "We?" he whispers, achingly hopeful.

"I could sooner cut out my heart than let you slip away. Wherever you go, I will come with you."

The kiss that follows is a sweet, gentle thing. Thorin's arms wrap around him and hold him close, and the contract slips to the floor, forgotten. His hands wind up in Thorin's hair and he toys with the strands as Thorin deepens the kiss. The feel of Thorin's tongue brushing against his own is exhilarating, intoxicating, and he presses against the dwarf. Thorin breaks the kiss and traces an invisible path down Bilbo's neck with his lips.

Bilbo shifts back a little and entwines his hands behind Thorin's neck. With a soft smile, he draws Thorin down until they are lying side by side. He moves in for another kiss, trailing his hands over Thorin's shoulders, down to his heaving chest. His fingers toy with the strings lacing the shirt, nimbly pulling on them until they come undone and a fraction of his chest is bared. He slides his hands inside, over scars and muscles, and relishes Thorin's sudden gasp.

The beard feels strange against his skin when Thorin's head moves lower. He nuzzles behind Bilbo's ear, and Bilbo tilts his head back further. His hands have found the tiny buttons of the pristine white shirt and slowly begin to undo them, one at a time until Bilbo thinks he might go mad. He makes a sound, low in his throat, and Thorin finally relents. The shirt is pushed open and his gentle hands run over Bilbo's chest, avoiding the fading bruises.

Bilbo tugs on the hem of Thorin's shirt, no longer satisfied with the small part he can reach, and Thorin obligingly sits up and takes it off. His chest is marred in multiple places, but Bilbo doesn't care. He waits for Thorin to lie back down before putting his mouth to the expanse of skin and beginning his explorations.

He takes his time, enjoying the broken sounds Thorin makes as he lays waste to his composure. The skin beneath his lips is warm, alive, and his hands wander adventurously lower. Thorin's hands dig into his hips as his hands find the laces on his breeches. He tilts his head and Thorin captures his lips in a kiss. He swallows the moan when his fingers slide teasingly over the fastenings. Thorin presses into his hand, and the sound of their groans mingles in the air. They are harder to loosen than the shirt was, especially since Thorin continues to distract him. His fingers falter when Thorin bends his tongue to his chest, but eventually he remembers what he was doing. He slides his hands to Thorin's waist next, and slowly drags the breeches down. His fingers slide over each newly exposed sliver of skin until he can pull them down no further. Thorin seems to understand, because he sits up long enough to dispose of the breeches and bare himself completely to Bilbo's heated gaze.

And gaze, he does, because Thorin is beautiful.

Suddenly aching, he pulls Thorin down and shifts until the dwarf covers him. Thorin's hand finds the space at the small of his back and Bilbo arches, presses up into the heat pressing him down. His own trousers are starting to feel rather constricted, a fact Thorin seemingly notices as well. The dwarf's steady hands make quick work of the belt and buttons, and within minutes, Bilbo's trousers have found their place beside the breeches.

When Thorin lowers himself again, there is no barrier between them, and the sensation is dangerously heady. He moves against Bilbo, who wraps his arms around Thorin's shoulders in an attempt to get closer and gain purchase. His body bends towards Thorin's and the dwarf slides his hands underneath Bilbo. They move together slowly, gasps and moans spilling from them. Their lips find each other, and the need to breathe goes ignored for some time.

But it can't last forever. All too soon, their movement becomes more frantic and desperate, both reaching for an elusive feeling that hovers tantalizingly close. One of them shifts and the sensations reach an exhilarating peak. Bilbo cries out softly as his climax hits, clinging to Thorin as if he is the only thing anchoring him.

Fingertips trace his face when awareness returns, and Thorin's sated eyes watch him. He smiles as Thorin rolls to the side and gathers him close, and buries his face in the broad shoulder. "Your cave," he mumbles sleepily, "it doesn't have any curtains. We'll need privacy."

Thorin chuckles softly, and Bilbo feels a soft kiss brush over his hair. "That is the first thing we'll take care of." He nestles in closer and listens with a contented smile as Thorin's breathing evens out.

_Mine._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translations:**
> 
> _Mahzirikhi zu gang ghukhil_ : I wish you a safe journey  
>  _Mukhuh kurûdmâ ra umùrâdmâ mahkurush_ : May our hearts and souls form a bond


	22. EPILOGUE

He is playing outside with Merry and Pippin when one of his uncles calls for him to come inside at once. He dusts off his trousers, wondering what he's done wrong this time. He hasn't broken anything since the vase he shattered last week, and surely his uncle couldn't have found the dead frog in his bedroom. He'd hidden it really well this time.

When he shuffles into the room, a strange, old hobbit is standing next to his uncle. They are talking softly, and Frodo quietly fidgets.

A hand gently pats his shoulder, and he looks up into kind brown eyes. "You must be Frodo," the stranger says, and Frodo nods cautiously. "You probably don't know me, but I am one of your father's cousins."

Most of Father's cousins live in Brandybuck, and he knows them all by sight. But his father had often talked of one cousin who had left his home behind to travel the lands. Frodo stares in wonder.

The hobbit smiles at him. "Ah, I see you must have heard something of me, then. My name is Bilbo. Tell me, how old are you now, lad?"

"I'm twelve," Frodo says proudly, drawing himself up to his full height. Bilbo smiles again, and Frodo quite likes that smile.

"How would you like to come with me?" Bilbo asks then. "I have no children of my own, you see, and I should very much like to take care of you. If you'd like me to, of course."

Frodo looks between his two uncles, only a little reassured by their smiles. "Would I have to leave Brandy Hall?" he asks timidly. Bilbo gives a small nod. "What about my friends?"

"You can come visit them as often as you like."

Frodo bites his lower lip as he thinks about it. He likes it at Brandy Hall -- likes Merry and Pippin and his other cousins and friends, and it's all he's ever known. But the grownups don't pay him much attention. It's not that they ignore him or don't take care of him, it's just that they're all busy with their own children, and seeing his friends with their parents makes him miss his father and mother fiercely. If his uncle Bilbo doesn't have any children as he says, then maybe, just maybe, he'll think Frodo is important.

He thinks he'd like that.

He nods, and Bilbo beams and slides a hand around his shoulder, gathering him close. "That's settled then," he says cheerfully.

Of course it's not as easy as that, and Frodo has to wait a little while longer while his uncle ("Of course you can call me that") signs a lot of papers that he says mean that Frodo is family now. But finally, they are ready to go, and Bilbo takes his hand as they step through the door.

When they have walked a short distance, someone else joins them, and Bilbo greets this new person with another of those nice smiles. He's as tall as a hobbit, but he isn't one. It takes Frodo a short while to realize it's a dwarf, and for a moment he's scared. But Uncle Bilbo reassuringly squeezes his shoulder, and when the dwarf smiles he doesn't look frightening at all. "This is Thorin," Uncle Bilbo says. "He's my very good friend." There's a twinkle in Thorin's eyes that Frodo recognizes, because Merry often looks like that when Pippin is telling a particularly funny story or fib. But it doesn't make sense for his uncle to lie, so maybe it means something else for dwarves.

They cross the road and leave it behind, setting out across the fields. When Frodo looks back, Brandy Hall is small in the distance, and after a little while he can't see it at all.

A shadow suddenly blocks out the sun. Frodo glances up and gasps. Something large is flying above them, its red tail shining in the sunlight. It lands in front of them with a thud, and Frodo stares wide-eyed as Uncle Bilbo and his friend Thorin beckon him to follow.

They stop in front of the dragon (he recognizes it from Gandalf's fireworks, although this one is much, much bigger) and Thorin places a hand on its head. "This is Smaug," he says. "Do not be scared."

Frodo feels excitement rush through him, and wishes for a moment that Merry and Pippin could see this. A real dragon! They won't believe him when he tells them.

Smaug's huge, golden eyes seem to stare right at him, and he seems to smile. _Hello, young Frodo._

* * *

END

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to say thank you so, so much to everyone who commented and stuck around for this. ♥ You guys don't know how much the comments mean to me, truly. :)
> 
> Thanks to [jeza_red](http://archiveofourown.org/users/jeza_red/pseuds/jeza_red) for a fabulous prompt that just kept on giving! I had a blast writing it.
> 
> Infinite thanks goes to my beta Lyn. ♥ She deserves a medal for putting up with me throughout this process.


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